I t’s the moment you wake up in your dorm room on the floor, your clothes on, your shoes off, a sleeping bag draped over you. You don’t know how you got there, to your dorm room, to the floor. You rem...

She didn’t see herself as a saint; she identified as something we needed even more: a writer.

I was in my twenties, wandering through downtown Philly in a tight skirt and tall boots. I had a baggie in my sock. The guy at the door didn’t check my purse after all. Just glanced at my ID and waved...

In the morning, she biked up the path by the slough. At the station, she started the coffee. A moose stood grazing in the back yard, unbothered. She checked the AP wire, the police blotter.

In the years I lived in that neighborhood, when I was twenty-seven and later twenty-eight, I visited the goldfish daily.

It’s very late, the policeman insists, for a woman and a girl. His flashlight drills into our car.

Put the brush down for one goddamn second, her father says. But she doesn’t. She won’t. She stands by the kitchen window and pulls the brush through her hair, thick and wavy, the glory of it all fanni...

Two giant men came in and asked for quarts of strawberry. My hands were split from constant washing, from the soaped rag I used to wipe down counters. I opened the freezer.

Some rogue cigarette flew into my eye. It was my second time ever in New York City. The ember sizzled. It was July. I screamed. Mia rushed to find a bathroom. We fled South Street Seaport and zigzagge...

Any absence maps the contours of a presence. Like the space between the shards of a chrysalis, shattered by the wild thing inside, or between the lines of a poem that contains the possibility of its o...

Angela Joynes Listen to Angela read her story On the flats along the Cold Stream among fiddleheads, violets, and trilliums, bloomed the delicate white flower Mama swore to be poison. I clung to my …