Excerpt: Ruth L. Schwartz


From Miraculum Forms of Prayer 1. Bring me all the days, I say. Beaten, weeping, scarred. Bring me the blossoming, the hidden branches. Bring me the promises, the limbs that break them. Bring me the love, the history we can’t stop making: sail-planes of the shoulder blades, slope of hip and thigh. Relentless untamed life … Continue reading

Story: Jacob Wegman


Bronte My sister, Bronte, writes about car crashes. I write about sunsets. My characters move onward toward futures of potential. The ginger professor with terminal brain cancer? He’s just reunited with his college paramour and has outlived his diagnosis by seven months. If seven months, why not seven more? Why not seven years, or forever? … Continue reading

(Archive) Tanka: Sean Prentiss


All summer we will be offering our newest fans a chance to see what they might have missed. Today, a Tanka feature from Sean Prentiss. Mountains are silhouettes & Doug firs touch dying light. It is evening here. The crew is peaceful like ravens Resting in branches of trees. ¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯¯ Sean Prentiss used to work … Continue reading

Poem: Mark Goad


The Day Would Be New The day would be new except for the scraps of ten thousand other days left lying around. Except for memories that defy forgetting’s acid wash. Except for the face in the mirror waiting for you to notice. Except for the answering machine blinking since you don’t know when. Except for … Continue reading

In Place: Christopher J. Anderson’s “The Book Store”


This week we are pleased to feature our very own Christopher J. Anderson with an excerpt from his work-in-progress The Book Store. In addition to all he does at Extract(s) as creative director and editor, he’s working on two books and is raising two children, several chickens, and a hive of honey bees with his … Continue reading

Excerpt: Jeremy Radin


From Slow Dance with Sasquatch Hallelujah Soup My mother, she makes soup for me. Chicken soup from an old country of snow boots and long graves. This is our country. We watch lovers in their swimsuits and pray for winter. My mother and I, we share the same forehead. The creases form a chuppah under … Continue reading

Story: Nina Bayer


Kissing Frankie Kaczynski The other day I bought a poetry book. I was with my mother at the mall and she said why don’t you buy a poetry book and so I bought a poetry book and brought it home. I covered it with an inside-out paper grocery bag and long strips of Scotch tape … Continue reading

Haiku: Glen Burgess


Bent to the task Lone figure diminished At home, a name Glen Burgess lives in Manchester, NH. When he is not bringing robots and other industrial machinery to life, he is busy raising is daughter with his wife and taking photographs of the world around him. He can be reached by email.

Poem: Paul Hostovsky


Throwing Snowballs at Cars From our little redoubt up on the hill we lobbed our redoubtable arsenal of white handcrafted ordnance one by one over the hedges and listened for the gratifying thunk on the roofs and hoods of the passing innocents who mostly just kept trundling dumbly along through the purely perfect-for-packing driven snow. … Continue reading

In Place: Tim Horvath’s “The Desert of Maine”


Tim Horvath weaves stories that tread that fine line between reality and surreality, between playing by the rules and being completely unruly. He tends to lead his readers into only vaguely familiar terrain, as he did with us on a recent trip to The Desert of Maine. When not roaming the dunes, he teaches creative … Continue reading


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