Now it’s time to learn more about the authors we read. . .   What drew you to the genre you write? Because I write across genres, there are many creative funnels that got me to this place. I g…

Ultimately improved by it: slant light hitting his prison obliquely near the state bird’s pointed head accentuated crest, the black-ringed bill from which wheat-wheat-wheat-wheat from which whoit chee...

The third time Zoey meets Death, she is unarmed except for a bag of twenty-seven kazoos.

Cyprus sweats and sings through the window: pigeons chasing boys who chased them, women whispering the name he kisses with a desiccating gesture: cool breath through lips pursed like the papyrus reed ...

You’ve seen me, brushed past— my strings screech & light up like a third rail— Mornings, I am fed by flies, strangers, sunrise.

When you walk through the doors of Club Ten, my jaw drops like a broken elevator. To see you again. Here. After the way we left things. Still, I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve always been an invete…

The laws of science teach us a pound of gold weighs as much as a pound of flour though if dropped from any undetermined height in their natural state one would reach bottom and one would fly away Laws...

said with some nuance: as if i came to masculinity through the women’s gate, as if a daughter who grew into her father but not like trans, but like trans or a transformation without catalyst or smoke....

You said once they gave you a house with waves of peppermint in the backyard, the Library of Babylon, and free lunch, they would take it away.

Oregon writer Wendy N. Wagner captures the eerie spirit of the Pacific Northwest.

Alt: a man in a suit and tie says join me perhaps you will be able to solve a mystery

The sixth or seventh time my husband buries me, I can tell by his jackknife grin that he thinks I’ll finally stay down.

Chuck Tingle, the bestselling author of horror novels including Camp Damascus and Bury Your Gays, talks with LJ about his forthcoming book, Lucky Day, using love as fuel for art, and the business of b...

The Only Crime Is Getting Caught

When Mother says, sing the guitar , I know she means an instrument is like your own flesh and bone. A white man in belted jeans (a heavy brass plate of armor on his navel) in pressed buttoned-up shirt...

A piece of birthday cake in Dublin. A red party hat with a snapped elastic band. Limp balloon rags with the number 5 printed on the plastic. A bountiful harvest of wrapping paper. Two aunts, doubled o...