Clik here to view.
Keith James: 55, from Anaconda (Fiction)
6AM.Jake Munson huddles over a jagged section of a whiteboard found in a dumpster two blocks from campus. His full name is scribbled across the board. Then it’s erased. A few seconds later, the name is...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Ray Scanlon: Hell on Wheels (Nonfiction)
No longer having the excuse of a decrepit dysfunctional aortic valve—I have thus far been unable to exceed modern medical technology's ability to fix me—I recently rode my bicycle for the first time in...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Why I Write: Andrew Scott
A baseball player my age is past his prime. When this piece first appears online, I will have recently turned 37.If I were a bench-warmer for the St. Louis Cardinals—my favorite team, thank you very...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Erik Evenson: Pearls (Fiction)
Three years working at the sports outlet store and I don’t know how to fit this kid with soccer cleats. His little sister is yelping and mom is getting a look. She says, “I don’t think you have what...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Michael K. Brantley: Small Game (Nonfiction)
“There he is!” shouted my brother.I had my shotgun pointed down at the ground and quickly swung it up to my shoulder. I flicked the safety off with the thumb of my right hand, lined up my shot, and...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Rana McCole: League Leader (Fiction)
It’s not a funny story. It could be. He wishes it were funny. If someone told Chris this story, he’d crack up for sure. But the way the whole situation went down makes him feel kind of frustrated every...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Why I Write: Nicolette Wong
Because I have filled my heart with mud to stop it from vaporizing.Pick it up. My new disappearance. Cast it to the side.Nicolette Wong is a dancer, magician and editor in chief of A-Minor Magazine and...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Patrina C. Jones: CHIL'REN (Poetry)
Innocent chil'ren play in sandboxes, boys and girlsAlike. No barriers exist beyond fits and fits of giggles,Full circle cartwheels. Chil'ren perform the duty ofMayor in carefully built castles. Adults...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Matthew Callan: Hang a Crooked Number (Fiction)
The game is a sham but I still have to work on my swing. I’ve been lost at the plate for so long you can’t call it a slump. You’d have to invent a new word or borrow one from a language more direct...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Lorene Delany-Ullman: Excerpt from Sweet Spot, a Memoir (Nonfiction)
Automatic OutGirls Track League Finals, spring 1975Spike to shin equals a scar I still distrust when I shave my legs. I was a runner. On the second to the last lap of the one-mile race, I was...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Trevor Pyle: Late Innings (Poetry)
As soon as the ball becomes a white streak off the batthe center fielder puts his hands on his hips,digs his toes into the warning trackand refuses to look at the ball as it sails over his head.I...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Samuel Vargo: Nobody's Pretty Boy (fiction)
A jab, then another. I deflect a left hook with my right shoulder and shuffle back. The drab green closes in on me: ominous jaws like those of an alligator. Such ugly draperies and wall coverings...
View ArticleClik here to view.
James Chesbro: Overtime (Nonfiction)
Sunday, November 10, 1985Atlanta Falcons vs. Philadelphia EaglesDad leans over me on my bed. I don’t understand why he refuses to let me sleep in my game outfit. He grins as he pries the gray corduroys...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Lynn Bey: Threading the Needle (fiction)
They’d never won it, the Interschool Soccer Tournament, Under 14s. And now Headers—Brendan Hedgers—had gone penga from his ball being stolen.“We’re the hosts this year,” Max was saying so his mother...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Dora Robinson: The Last Match (Poetry)
Boxing is more art than craft.The sweet science is about movement,feet and hands choreographed.A combatant's ballet contained by the ring. In the dressing room, the fighter wraps his fists,slips on his...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Ross McMeekin: The Boy with the Unprotected Arm (fiction)
Pencils behind ears, stat books in hand, the coaching staff crunched the numbers. Above, in the stands, parents crunched, too. In the announcer’s booth, a couple of old, sturdy-jawed WASPs crunched...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Eric Otto: Puzzling Would be Truer (Poetry)
Puzzling Would Be Truer to its name if puzzles were edgeless and glossy blue on both sides or whatever color folks wouldntsit around...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Kyle Massa: Jeter-esque (Nonfiction)
My Grampa's old house was the best place to watch baseball, because no matter what room you were in, you could always hear the Yankees game. For a while, the broadcast was narrated by the low bass of...
View ArticleClik here to view.
Ben Alfaro: When the Red Wings Take a First Round Exit
I finish my beer. I shake the barkeep's dry hand.I tear my jersey off my back. I sully a reputationwith a reneged bet. I order a new beer, pay offthe damn bet. I let the jukebox swallow anotherdollar....
View ArticleClik here to view.
Walter Bjorkman: Arky to Frenchy to Augie (Fiction)
“Vaughan, Bordagaray or Galan. Arky, Frenchy or Augie, that is better, da.” The guard tower was just ahead and Boris couldn’t have been better prepared for his mission behind enemy lines. The KGB...
View Article