Grady Kendall is biding his time in Maine, living with his mom as the pandemic swirls around them.
A Work Note
Coaching for change.
Mouse is a young cyborg stud who plays a stolen sensory syrynx—an instrument that projects sights, smells, and sounds all at once.
A Jungian psychoanalyst and self-named cantadora, or keeper of stories, Clarissa Pinkola Estés here collects myths, fairy tales, fables, and many other stories old and new about the inner and outer lives of women.
Three workers reluctantly take jobs at the factory.
In Craft in the Real World, Matthew Salesses sets out to upend the traditional fiction writing workshop—which was established by, about, and for white male writers.
Marie is seventeen and a giant of a woman, taller and broader and stronger than those around her.
It’s 2203, and Olive Llewellyn has traveled from her home on the moon to earth, where she is on a book tour.
Late one night, at a luxury hotel reachable only by boat, someone scrawls Why don’t you swallow broken glass on a huge picture window.
An unnamed girl lives in a cave with her mother, in a wild wood warded against danger and those who would seek them out.
In a series of interviews that took place in the years 1985 and 1986, journalist Bill Moyers spoke with the famous scholar and teacher of mythology, Joseph Campbell.
On holding space for ambiguity.
In this collection of essays, a group of scholars consider Le Guin’s The Dispossessed in light of it’s utopian, anarchist, temporal, and revolutionary politics.
In this collection are infidelities and funerals, umbrellas hurtled by the wind, landmines hidden in sand, and tightly wound rhymes that hint of a spirit coiled, waiting in the dark.
Rydra Wong is a poet, a captain, an erstwhile cryptographer, and a burgeoning telepath.
In this well-argued polemic, Devon Price outlines three tenets of what they term the “laziness lie”: that your worth is your productivity, that you cannot trust your own feelings and limits, and that there is always more you should be doing.
In Drift(er), Jake Skeets addresses the Richard Avedon photo that adorns the book’s cover: “to drift is to be carried by a current of air or water / but men are not the teeth / of their verbs.”