Amid the chorus of opinions and think pieces, the loudest, most eloquent voice was Mayor Landrieu’s, immortalized in a speech he delivered on May 19, 2017. The remarks were meant to unify the city after a divisive period, but they… by Jeanie Riess | Sep, 2017

I wake from a dream in which I am back at military training, among the classrooms and the clash of Claymores, the hot wake of wind from the report of rifles. Booted feet echo through the hallways, and forced voices… by Paul Crenshaw | Sep, 2017

A story by Jesmyn Ward, the third and final excerpt from her forthcoming novel  Sing, Unburied, Sing. The officer is young, young as me, young as Michael. He’s skinny and his hat seems too big for him, and when he… by Jesmyn Ward | Sep, 2017

A new-society vision in Jackson, Mississippi. Chokwe Antar Lumumba saw Jackson as a last chance. This was a place where long-marginalized black communities could build a new economy for themselves, a democratic and fair society, a foundation for good lives… by Katie Gilbert | Sep, 2017

Trying to achieve black selfhood in Little Rock  The erasure of pre-integration black community also means the loss of artifacts of black joy. Those artifacts, mementos of those places, seem harder to find today, scrubbed from memory, or crowded out… by Frederick McKindra | Sep, 2017

A poem from the Fall 2017 issue. I always wanted to be a mother sucking pinches of moss like cough drops stuffing tiny pinkcheeks with breadcrumbs    would that make you love me more  by Kaveh Akbar | Sep, 2017

An installment in our weekly series, The By and By.  It became impossible for me to jibe the romanticized South with the reality of what that war was actually about, and what it cost. And as I put away childish… by Ronni Lundy | Aug, 2017

A flood is no cooperative beast. It doesn’t distribute itself uniformly. Its edges stretch and shrink, and Houston lay underneath a giant, erratic web of floods, not a single sea but multitudes of individual ones, sprouting like fungus in the… by Micah Fields | Sep, 2017

A story by Jesmyn Ward, the second of three excerpts from her forthcoming novel Sing, Unburied, Sing.  Because I wanted Michael’s mouth on me, because from the first moment I saw him walking across the grass to where I sat… by Jesmyn Ward | Jun, 2017

Cut

An installment in Chris Offutt’s Omnivore column, Cooking with Chris.  Magic and cooking are based on the same principles of transformation, cutting and restoring, vanishing and reappearing. A blue handkerchief suddenly becomes red! A woman sawn in half returns intact! A… by Chris Offutt | Jun, 2017

Think of these women, coming out of the South and up to Milwaukee, arriving finally in tiny, all-white Grafton by either streetcar or automobile and feeling their way in a studio for the first time. As they fought the forces… by Daphne A. Brooks | Feb, 2017

An installment in our weekly series, The By and By. From the Center for Documentary Studies at Duke University: To introduce our first story for The By and By, a writing-and-audio narrative around the new book The Blood of Emmett Till, we… by Timothy B. Tyson | Apr, 2017

September 05, 2017

A story by Jesmyn Ward, the third and final excerpt from her forthcoming novel  Sing, Unburied, Sing.

The officer is young, young as me, young as Michael. He’s skinny and his hat seems too big for him, and when he leans into the car, I can see where his gel has dried and started flaking up along his hairline. He speaks, and his breath smells like cinnamon mints. 

June 13, 2017

A story by Jesmyn Ward, the second of three excerpts from her forthcoming novel Sing, Unburied, Sing. 

Because I wanted Michael’s mouth on me, because from the first moment I saw him walking across the grass to where I sat in the shadow of the school sign, he saw me. Saw past skin the color of unmilked coffee, eyes black, lips the color of plums, and saw me. Saw the walking wound I was, and came to be my balm.

March 14, 2017

A story by Jesmyn Ward, the first of three excerpts from her forthcoming novel Sing, Unburied, Sing. 

I like to think I know what death is. I like to think that it’s something I could look at straight. When Pop tell me he need my help and I see that black knife slid into the belt of his pants, I follow Pop out the house, try to keep my back straight, my shoulders even as a hanger; that’s how Pop walks. I try to look like this is normal and boring so Pop will think I’ve earned these thirteen years, so Pop will know I’m ready to pull what needs to be pulled, separate innards from muscle, organs from cavities. I want Pop to know I can get bloody. Today’s my birthday.