By Steve Almond A lot of what I do as a writer boils down to making obnoxious assumptions, so let me start with one: if you’re reading this, you’re an aspiring writer, or an aspiring musician, or both. The first thing I’d like to do (this being the case) is to dismiss any lingering notions of glamour you might associate with a career in the arts. I will do so by presenting an essay I composed last night. It is entitled: What I Did Yesterday. Okay.
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By Connor Buckley ...This story is entirely a product of an interview that I conducted with my grandmother, the Milly of this story. It is a fictionalized reimagination of true facts and actual happenings. No scene in this story is my invention. My inventions are the circumstances that place the scenes, circumstances that are meant to be constructions of the fictionalized narrator’s memory.
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By Nigel Newton …I was born on July 28, 1990, and immediately regretted it. Had I been given the option I would’ve stayed in the womb indefinitely but life, much like Kim Jung Il, is a stern dictator that does not believe in personal freedoms.
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By Peter Iannitto ...He’d have no momentum to continue if it weren’t for the smack in his veins. He doesn’t get his kicks from the stage anymore. As the last note of his orchestration fades away we’re left with a sad, frightened man, mumbling into the microphone, kindly asking the audience to stop yelling requests. He stares at the floor, recoiling into his shoulders, terrified.
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