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“Are all the girls really beautiful? Is it true you make out in the showers?”

Lindy knew what happens in the dark behind shut doors: girls tell stories.

New cartoons by Le Lievre, Warp, Piccolo, Leavitt, and Sipress.

We'd see them more, but your father and I aren't much for traveling.

He drowned under a different name, a fake name chiseled in German.

The school’s committed to an all-sterile facility by the year 2025.

It is our nature to conform; it is a force which not many can resist.

Tonight these writers lower their eyes and silence their words.

Staring down the barrel of a black gun I forget I’m no longer just a boy.

“It’s out of the question. It’s a waste of your time. And my money.”

Let us not forget the desuetude of nailed-shut carousels.

“If a man wanted, he could be anything and not come back.”

Soon I will walk up those same back steps the police took by force.

Sometimes they revert to trickery, apple their venom with a smile.

Paharganj reels with beggars. Old women, boys, breast-feeding girls.

“You are too young for politics, too beautiful for a jail cell.”

The pictures were taken in the woods, naked from the waist down.

Many people remarked upon the similarities between the flags.

Stories are places to live. We live in stories. What we are is stories.

The intention of the writer is irrelevant to the success of the story.

“Who you kiddin? There’s no middle class anymore, we’re all just poor.”

I am determined to praise my particular world, so I must praise you.

Now all I was, all I had ever been, when it came down to it, was a tenant.

I was a skinhead in look and seem, a balding guy trying out the future.

He hit all of us sometimes, but he hit me hardest and the most.

Her trust in me is a swirled marble sinking slowly in an aqua pool.

At Walden Pond, Henry Thoreau clicks like on the “Wilderness” page.