A New Kind of Literary Pulse

My mother taught me to knit.
Back then, knitting was a necessity, not some artisan craft like it is today. She would get patterns from women's magazines and cheap wool from the market. She ... [+]

Harold Gates slowed the snow-topped yellow taxi and edged it along the slushy curb to a stop where she stood, shivering in a tattered wool coat in a January blizzard on the steps of her unlit ... [+]

Straight out of high school Mick’s uncle landed Mick and me second-shift jobs at a textile factory. I asked Mick what the company manufactured. Gigantic rolls of something, he said. From three ... [+]

She sleeps like a dead weight now beside me, lowered into the night, the ropes of the day swaying around her. We know nothing about each other really. She does not know how often my ex-lover visits me ... [+]

I met Sarkas at a club called Pose. Rolling on molly, eager to swallow the world, dancing with our hips and mouths pressed together before I even knew his name. Light ricocheted off sweat-slick skin ... [+]

On the days I visited the care center, I’d walk past this used bookshop on a quiet sidestreet. There were these four books in the shop window that always caught my eye. Other books would come and ... [+]

Not long after she moved – ties cut, no looking back, he’d never find her on that side of town anyway, if he bothered to look – she found a string of Christmas lights at the thrift store when ... [+]

I remember when my world divided into male and female, when the girls screamed “Shaun has cooties!” across the playground and flushed with what I thought was anger. I remember being in a ... [+]

First thing every day, I count out the same colorful cocktail of medications into Mother’s four containers: morning, midday, evening meal and nighttime. Two pink pills shortly after waking up, and ... [+]

The first time it really hits me, I’m staring at the peeling paint on the doorknob.
I long ago memorized the feeling of coming home – the click of my key in the door, the scent of Mom’s sti ... [+]

Mr. MacInnes had decided it was time to talk to Brian about his appearance. He didn’t want to, lord knows he wasn’t a stickler for such things, but lately it had all gotten a bit out of hand. It ... [+]

1. Octopuses have nine brains.
Me? I wouldn’t want so many organs with which to overthink and fly into hysterics. You always ran from those—took the car and left me alone for hours, sometimes ... [+]