A New Kind of Literary Pulse

Georgia lies in bed, eyes closed, curled into a ball, listening to the soft tick-tick-tick from the clock in the living room as it counts down the minutes until morning. The minutes tick into hours ... [+]

The day after the election, he carved a mask.
The day after that, he carved another.
It had never been more than a hobby; a craft passed down to him by his grandfather, who carved and painted all ... [+]

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 ... [+]

They did it for the hell of it. They knew they wouldn't last. Their friends knew; their families knew; even their dog knew, though it wasn't invited to the wedding.
It was fun, especially when they ... [+]

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 until ... [+]

We pull off at the side of the highway in Somewhere, Maine looking to sing to the snails. There's a deep shoulder of gravel here, so we assume it to be a parking lot. The sky and the water and the ... [+]

In college, I went on a date with the son of my mother's coworker. I couldn't remember if his name was Jason or Justin, so I spent the entire night maneuvering my way out of saying his name. He was ... [+]

On his way out the door to a meeting with a client, the husband said, "We should have a baby," and the wife, pointing to one of the windows that overlooked the driveway, said, "We already have an ... [+]