A New Kind of Literary Pulse

Death.

The process and length of the decay of flesh, any flesh, depends. Little things. Big things. Many things. But generally once the rot has set in, this process is irreversible. You see ... [+]

The bottom of a closet is a welcoming place. I know - not the greatest sentiment for a queer person to express, but just try to hear me out on this one.
The hanging clothes hardly graze the tops ... [+]

My family liked the campsite at first: plenty of trees, level ground for our tent, a short walk to the bathroom. Though we didn’t like that buzzing sound. We chalked it up to the nearby power lines ... [+]

“I need to deposit money into the bank.” He said as he kept moving about his room and picking up objects and moving them somewhere else. I gestured to him to keep quiet and I tried to coax him ... [+]

It has been over eight years since my father has left his presence with us and on Earth. He was diagnosed with stomach cancer and his life was taken within one year of his diagnosis. My father was an ... [+]

My hands used to create magic. I think with the increasing demands of adulthood, they've had their spark pulled right out of them. My little sister's hands still glisten with it, but I fear he ... [+]

We may not all don crowns on our heads, but we all clothe ourselves in underwear. Underwear, I would argue, grants one as much power as—if not more power than—the jewel-encased headgear worn by ... [+]

“Ohmygosh I haven’t even started that monumental thousand point project due tomorrow.” My friend sighed rubbing his eyes, “how far are you Kenley?”

“Oh, umm...” I hesitate. Sweat ... [+]

I was sitting in a public square in Athens, when I saw something that Intrigued me. A young man, not five meters away from me, who also sat on a smooth bench of stone, was happily chewing on a gyro ... [+]

Rites are supposed to be heavy, large things. Difficult to carry or pass through. Empty stomach and a bulging suitcase as you make your way out of your mother's arms in a way that feels final. Empty ... [+]

This story isn’t a cute story or a quaint story, but it is a true story that I can’t quite make sense of. There was traveling and there was cancer, and then there were snail shells that have to ... [+]

One of my earliest memories is running around my great-grandmother’s backyard catching fireflies. Grandma Marie lived in Virginia, and, at least once a year, we would make the nine-hour journey to ... [+]

MY MOTHERS TONGUE:

My mother’s tongue is precious to her. It clicks and snaps as her lips form her words. Sounds that I can only hear, but I can never make myself. My lips don’t make the ... [+]

“93, 94, 95...” I stared blankly at the ceiling, counting sheep in my head. “98, 99, 100...” My stomach did another gurgle, telling me that we wouldn’t have another normal lunchtime. I ... [+]

In 2010, the street artist Stephen Powers completed a series of murals as a love letter to the city of Philadelphia, his home. I had never heard of him before, but I’d seen these murals on my trips ... [+]

During my transition from being a Harvard lab technician to a Harvard graduate student in the summer of 2015, I went home to New York for three weeks of vacation. My last day there was sunny and not ... [+]

SNAP! At first, it did not even register. The world suddenly tilts, like looking through a camera while it drops, your vision spinning with it. Then, you are blindly wondering why you are on the ... [+]

I’m sitting on the couch, staring at the roof. One of my legs is on the table that is filled with cups and garbage. The plant next to my foot is dried. A slight light enters the room from the gap ... [+]