I understood X must have wanted to think she was not like the other women who thought her boyfriend was in love with them. Wanted to think she had some upper hand on the reality of the situation. Maybe she… by April Ayers Lawson | Jul, 2015

Matt Bower’s series On the Way Home documents rural life in the South, with a focus on communities that have escaped development and sprawl. by Jeff Rich | Jul, 2015

A story from our Fiction Issue. Full disclosure up front: I am a gay black man, a proud New Orleanian, thirty years old, five out of the closet, a decade on the down-low before that; bi-dialectal as every educated brother… by Micah Stack | Jul, 2015

While Henry Lee McCollum and Leon Brown sat in prison, my sisters and I went on school trips to the Biltmore House and Six Flags; we took family trips to Blowing Rock, Chimney Rock, Sliding Rock, Callaway Gardens. By the… by Jill McDonough | Jul, 2015

Our new issue includes ten short stories—and they are all, in their individual ways, love stories. This week we celebrate the release of our Fiction Issue and bid a fond farewell to editor Roger D. Hodge. by Oxford American | May, 2015

I never met Paul MacLeod, never took a drunken middle-of-the-night trip to Graceland Too, and this was my last chance to see it. The contents of MacLeod’s home-turned-Elvis-museum would be auctioned off the following day. by Mary Miller | Jul, 2015

For so many years I thought of myself as a Kentucky poet, and for many years, I proudly wrote about Kentucky, or at least my small, cave-hollowed corner of it. 

I understood X must have wanted to think she was not like the other women who thought her boyfriend was in love with them. Wanted to think she had some upper hand on the reality of the situation. Maybe she did.

Matt Bower’s series On the Way Home documents rural life in the South, with a focus on communities that have escaped development and sprawl.

Laura, who comes every other week to clean my house, seems not to engage with the little narratives I leave for her.

I never met Paul MacLeod, never took a drunken middle-of-the-night trip to Graceland Too, and this was my last chance to see it. The contents of MacLeod’s home-turned-Elvis-museum would be auctioned off the following day.

A story from our Fiction Issue.

Full disclosure up front: I am a gay black man, a proud New Orleanian, thirty years old, five out of the closet, a decade on the down-low before that; bi-dialectal as every educated brother in this city must be, a code-switcher as needed; a poet in my spare time, in my unspare time a poetry teacher devoted to dead French guys and live black ones.

While Henry Lee McCollum and Leon Brown sat in prison, my sisters and I went on school trips to the Biltmore House and Six Flags; we took family trips to Blowing Rock, Chimney Rock, Sliding Rock, Callaway Gardens. By the time I memorized the counties of North Carolina for Mrs. Eddington’s sixth grade class, Brown and his stepbrother had been on death row a couple years.

Memories, particularly with loved ones, are a curious phenomenon. The good ones often do not fully announce themselves as anything close to “good” when they are happening. It’s only after the event, when a new perspective is gained, that they become an accepted—or funny, or weird, or sweet—episode in family history.

In “Slow Process,” Cait Kovac photographs scenes that expose how nature is reclaiming the landscape across the South. Many of her photos have an improvised feel, as Kovac often makes them while wandering down dirt roads and exploring old parks, churches, and other abandonments.

The year before Paul MacLeod, the owner of Graceland Too, died of natural causes on his porch just two days after he shot and killed a local house painter, I drove my partner, Mesha, down South so that she could experience Paul’s museum firsthand.

The sun is going down in New Orleans. A man turns onto Frenchman Street, putting out a cigarette on the old brick sidewalk. He hears laughter coming from inside a bar. Nearby, a local bookstore owner closes up for the night.

I think the best that we can do as songwriters is try to document and try to record something about the time that we’re living in. If you want to connect with people who are alive now—unless you’re singing to ghosts—you better talk about things that are happening in the present.

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