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Sonja slapped her sister. How could she shed tears for the past?

Narrative Prize and Pushcart winner Anthony Marra reads “Chechnya.”

Sonja slapped her sister. How could she shed tears for the past?

Saint Clark, halo and all, patron of wildlife shows and the cigarette tax.

Audio clips of Pultizer Prize winner Jennifer Egan on her work.

The school’s committed to an all-sterile facility by the year 2025.

Here's an affecting glimpse into a story of fatherhood.

He got his wife off a German farmer, for whom he went to work one day.

“Then I can promise to kill either of you if I ever see you again.”

We want no truck with death. Not now while we’re busy feasting on figs.

I saw her bed wasn’t slept in and knew—something had happened.

“You are too young for politics, too beautiful for a jail cell.”

“There’s got to be some way through this,” he says, “without losing her.”

It wasn’t so long ago I carried my tiny son piggyback through the woods.

We are nothing; less than nothing, we are only what might have been.

I push the stroller across the courts to the scene of the thing I don’t get.

They’re are all begging to be fed. Changed. Read to. Desperate for milk.

She was laughing. Something animal in me was sparked, and I chased her.

I’m on the verge of a breakdown. So I might as well have another child.

“You see,” Sister Elba said, smiling, “you should never doubt him.”

Eleanor was the first normal person my brother, Nick, ever dated.

I pictured myself as a chart inside her head. Two sides: good and bad.

I’ve made a rigorous effort. But it’s been hard, this hug embargo.

I bought the gun after my therapist said he wouldn’t have sex with me.

“Listen,” Mike said. “You’ve had a hard day. How about I drive you home?”