by Hannah Grieco...It isn’t normal, the way you smell. The way your body responds to fear...

by Lucas Reilly...Remember, the three things to remember are death, taxes, and I will forget my wallet and/or my keys.

by Jamie Zerndt...I think for some love can be like the first hit of a powerful drug. Maybe you just chase after that feeling for the rest of your life, but some never really reach it again.

by Kip Knott...When I was a kid, the notion of falling into the ocean and turning into a fish that could live and breathe forever underwater became my most fervent desire, especially on those days whe...

by Ross McMeekin...That lack of definitive explanations isn’t dissimilar to the questions many of us have about God, in the sense that God by definition can only be described insufficiently.

by Lydia Buzzard...A missile soaring in a flock’s V formation is no gosling and yet they both seek heat.

by Jan Stinchcomb...After the rupture your parents become great storytellers, but they only want to talk about each other. As you get older, the stories mutate into tall tales.

by Zach Wallis...Snow-shark-finned and vast and built of poems for someone else to write, the San Juan Mountains bracket the world. I try to place my feet where we were before, by the lopsided cairn y...

by Lyndsie Manusos...That a young girl, perhaps seven, found the diadem the robbers dropped while making haste to exit, and tucked it under her skirt, the curves of jewels pressing against her skin.

by James Callan...The sun was directly over our heads. The asphalt was soft under my shoes. Insects were dying, cooked alive beyond the shadows of parked cars.

trampset is an online literary journal publishing fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and diverse voices. Read new work and explore featured writers.

Interview by Mandira Pattnaik...My mother died when I was 15 and it has really shaped so much of my life in ways that are still unfolding, good and bad, so this collection is part therapy, part tribut...

Submit fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and translations to trampset. Read guidelines and share your best work with our literary journal.

by Michael Czyzniejewski...I felt compelled to sit, peck at the keys, so many of them missing, yet just enough, the exact keys that I needed still there: Despite me never playing before, not a note, I...

by MB Valente...At recess that first day she told me to punch a boy she pointed out and I did. He hit me back and got in trouble but nobody yelled at me. I just crouched in her shadow and felt its war...

by Liz Berkstresser...When the floor stops moving, they take us off the truck. There’s a trail of blood leading to an open space with a green velvet floor.

by Julieanne Larick...if you think our legs are green pears in a bowl if you think there’s merit to wearing a leotard in the dark take us home tonight and fistfeed us chex-mix by the bucket...

by Elissa Field...I eye one under glass in diesel green, iridescent like rainbows on petrol. Laser embossed handgrips in swirls of vining flowers. I’d fired yours at the range. First time I heard a sh...

by Zebulon Huset...There’s always a seed crystal ready to replicate itself. The mother-soup bags. It’s not like the bags of bags were precious, but I dreamed better when I knew they were safe.

by Casey Jo Graham Welmers...I wasn’t convinced of its death. For three days I just left it in the tank, fins dropping across the water like a gossamer veil. Then I scooped it out with my bare hand an...

by Tymber Wolf...No one here drinks water. They only bathe in it on Sundays. They aren’t a dirty bunch, just don’t want to pay the price of water in the desert. They have an unspoken culture to use what they are willing to have.

by Jack Fisher...everyone within smelling distance would remember what had floated past them. Chickens. Mattresses. Gas cans. Family photos. A horse with one eye open. A young woman's wedding dress, ...

by William Taylor Jr. ... Me and my 5 dollars worth of sad songs on the jukebox heart, my Lost Highway heart, my Richard Brautigan San Francisco Heart, my Brothers Karamazov heart, my one last dri...

by Natalie Paris...For a long while, no one would notice her car in the ocean of cars, stretching out towards the horizon—north, south, east, and west—and that was just the way that Marcie would have ...

trampset is an online literary journal publishing fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and diverse voices. Read new work and explore featured writers.

by Emily Rinkema...The Mongols don’t notice me right away. I’m wearing sweatpants, wool socks, and a Dogs are My People hoodie, which I haven’t taken off since I checked in two days ago, alone.

Interview by Mandira Pattnaik... "Reading can begin to feel easier and less risky, while, with each passing day, we grow more judgmental of our own work. I would say: take the risk. Begin afraid. What...

by Paul Chuks...Any artist who stays back and refuses Western audience or does not collaborate with a Western star or is not affiliated with any Western label is seen as unambitious and a local champi...

Submit fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and translations to trampset. Read guidelines and share your best work with our literary journal.

by Sarp Sozdinler...First: remove all the mirrors in your home. Hide them in the crawl space, bury them in your landlord’s garden, shove them in the backseat of a stranger’s car.

by Thad DeVassie...They say it comes with electrolytes. Even the chosen typeface for the word electrolytes! looks exciting and exuberant, and the sound of it rolling off the tongue conjures up images ...

by Lorrie Ness...She spread newspapers atop the bed & let the ads bleed onto her damp thighs until a Liquidation Sale tattoo blazed across her skin.

by Pravin Vemuri...Unsurprisingly, also unwittingly, he turned to atheism by seven. To existentialism by sixteen. To hard drugs soon after.

by Claire Lee...The word bubbles under his skin, then pops, dissipating into his blood like soap, air. Brother’s tongue is dry as desert, doesn’t feel the slow, heavy heartbeat need to wet it.

by Jason Davidson...and I thought I heard glass breaking and wondered if I would ever eat chocolate again and wondered if I would remember the language of this compromise

by Emily Rinkema...The Mongols don’t notice me right away. I’m wearing sweatpants, wool socks, and a Dogs are My People hoodie, which I haven’t taken off since I checked in two days ago, alone.

by Ben Starr...Until he could fall asleep while he was already sleeping, burying sleep deep inside pockets fast asleep, tucked away like the hand-painted nesting dolls my grandmother brought with her ...

by Ewen Glass...is not a pub, it’s a stream, meandering black circles halved by footbridge. Kids rhyme their way past skulking little duckies

by Mitchell Ny...We lie on the switchback, you atop my chest, and become immovable—like my nerves had been pulled gently from my navel. I am denervated meat and cooked clay.

trampset is an online literary journal publishing fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and diverse voices. Read new work and explore featured writers.

Interview by Mandira Pattnaik... "I like poems that feel like a fever dream, and I like poems that feel like a snapshot of eternity."