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VIEW ALL CONTENT I should be writing about mountains Chantae Bryant I should be writing about mountains, but I can’t stop thinking about war. A dream deferred does it sink? To its knees like a burlap sack filled with sand - does it hold? The bloody memory of a limb. A hand that held a lover. The arms that hugged a mother. I should be writing about the canyons. About the empty echos of our laughter sharp along desert grooves. Like white hot bullets and agony in the dry heat. Chantae Bryant is a writer currently based in Fukuoka, Japan. She holds a B.A. in English from Colorado Mesa University. When not buried in a book or a journal, you may find her watching early 2000s horror movies. Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter.

Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter. I should be writing about mountains Chantae Bryant I should be writing about mountains, but I can’t stop thinking about war. Continue Reading Dream Log Shannon Guglielmo The year was ending & I had been stuck in a dream loop of eggplant & zucchini Continue Reading july, new york Penina Kessler the days have grown limber and floppy and stretch into parts of the evening that i forgot they could touch. Continue Reading a prayer to san pedro de atacama Penina Kessler in the strands of april sun i light the burnt end of the palo santo Continue Reading Monstrous Lover Wes Viola Sometimes you know they’re monsters on the way in, Continue Reading Still Life Calynn Liong Harris The square framed scene of a white surface balancing Continue Reading Blighted Ovum Calynn Liong Harris We gazed sightless through the warbling window of the ultrasound machine into the yawning blackness. Continue Reading Observance Calynn Liong Harris When I tear into a tangle of laundry I always fold his clothes first. Continue Reading Indigenous. Fatihah Quadri You have your mother's thighs, the kind that men search for in dreams, wake up feeling sweaty. Continue Reading Witness. Fatihah Quadri My sister was dressed in black, her grey scarf like my grandmother’s hair. Continue Reading Galactorrhea. Fatihah Quadri The night Aunty Tolu returned, we watched as she pour herself into the sink, fresh milk pulled out from her body. Continue Reading To the Girl Who Found a Child Inside Her Body. Fatihah Quadri That night, your mother was lemon water, sour-voiced, she sat on the floor to talk about you with other women. Continue Reading Quarry Hugh Findlay The forest dissolves into shrouds of white gauze. Then nearby, a slight rustle of movement—quarry! Continue Reading Stew You Stephen Mead do the piss, the moan, that dance of elbows for eyes, nose, mouth entangling self Continue Reading Happiest Hour D Larissa Peters My favorite time of day is just after I put you down You: asleep—without restlessness—slow in and out breath Me: I breathe—finally alone—no interruption, no need for half-attention And my favorite time is when you wake up again Continue Reading Sun-stained sands Jack Love I’ll be here to remind you of your early days, to tell You who you were: a reflection of who you will be. Continue Reading A Perfectly Clear Day John Johnson The oatmeal belches a few big round bubbles as George gives it a final stir and turns off the burner. Shrr-thump, shrr-thump . . . he hears Ada’s walker clomp down the hallway. Continue Reading James Hook Reflects on the Miraculous Restoration of His Right Hand Joshua Jones Lofflin He has yet to address the crew, has assiduously ignored their furtive glances, but on this he is clear: There shall be no changes. Continue Reading Linda Blair Ali MacLeod Something evil left my body and I thought Finally Continue Reading An Apology for Flying an RC Helicopter Through the Leaves of Tessa’s Monstera Ali MacLeod Like many of my life’s mistakes, this is one I wish I could say I didn’t make on purpose. Continue Reading Not Yet Clean Huina Zheng The clothes I’d washed last night were still tumbling the next morning. I crouched barefoot on the balcony, watching. The water had long drained, but the machine kept spinning, dry, scraping. I pressed the stop button. The light went out. The drum spun faster. I unplugged it. Still, it turned. The drain hose twitched. Continue Reading Reflections Close to Closing Time Anne Mikusinski It's three minutes past The last time I checked I'm so informed! As time is marked by thin gold hands. Continue Reading Ten years but tomorrow. DS Maolalai I think of old friends and wonder will I meet who I was when my feet touch the granite Continue Reading Three AM Anne Mikusinski Outside The rain whispers Playing counterpart to the sounds Inside Continue Reading Danse Macabre Wes Viola There are ghosts of us dancing: Continue Reading Skeleton Wes Viola Your bones grin at me. My bones grin back at you. Continue Reading May He Rapture the Animals Before the Christians Jonathan Fletcher Except for the mantis, they do not pray. Continue Reading The Last Remaining Inca Rope Bridge Jonathan Fletcher Long has it stood and spanned a river. Long have I waited for you to bridge my ignorance. Continue Reading Father's Day Jonathan Fletcher I buy my mom flowers instead of seeds, though I want to buy seeds. And plant them. And grow a father from the soil. Continue Reading They Fell Bob Gielow The first to fall were the birches, just as beguiling when horizontal. The world was unconcerned. Continue Reading Running Nina Feinberg Most of the time, it’s too hard to have a body: bones break, muscles tear, ankles turn. Continue Reading I have an obsession with haunted houses Ashling Meehan-Fanning because I am one. We all are. Big empty corridors filled with lilting melodies and cobwebs where dust motes and dead insects have been caught and strung up for the all ghosts to see. Continue Reading To The Reader Ann Youmans I did not know that about your grandmother When I wrote the scene with the brunch Continue Reading Let’s Go Crazy (golden shovel for Prince) Ann Youmans Are your days distinguished? Or are they gathered in blocks — a week slips away, a month here with nothing that marks today Continue Reading We Should Have Picked the Gallery with the Cash Bar Ann Youmans It’s the opening night reception and the place is packed. Most of the visitors face each other, not the paintings, little groups of glittering guests in their Friday-night finery, wine in plastic cups. The din is ecstatic—we need more fiber art. Continue Reading I quiver when you touch me Ann Youmans I see the quivering leaves and I remember you, feather-light fingers brushing across my skin “Like petals,” you breathe, Continue Reading In Case of Fire Renee Emerson We practice at night because disaster always comes when everyone is sleeping, Continue Reading The Machines Katerina Sutton Every month we followed Dad to the driveway and watched the delivery man haul another machine into the living room. There was a rowing machine and a stationary bicycle and an elliptical. Dad named them after women I didn’t recognize, always from the first half of the alphabet. Continue Reading Gush Less Stephen Mead Do you mind? I came here for the view & you're staining the menu. Continue Reading Hungry Like the Wolf Chris Cottom Mum frowns at my ‘Smash the Patriarchy’ hoodie, tells me to say hi to Granny, hands me yet another foraged-fruit crumble in a twee wicker basket. She’s the first veggie to win SuperChef and tonight’s her date with the guy who won MeisterSinger. I imagine my dad – whatever he looks like – seeing the pictures, letching over what he’s missing. As I wave from the gate, Mum’s dishing out treacle-drizzled traybake amongst the paparazzi, all cutie-pie smiles and icing-white teeth. Continue Reading Grief is a Strange Bird Casey Lawrence Grief is a strange bird. Sometimes it darkens our skies; others, it gathers in the trees watching us move about our day, present but not interfering. On the worst days, it murmurates, small hurts becoming one writhing mass blocking out the sun, looming and shitting on the windshield of your new car. Continue Reading Me and My Good Humor Betsy Robinson Darwinkle cleared his throat and announced that he loved me, had always loved me, and was ravenous for my body. I replied, "Oh," and offered him a cup of tea. He said he would, thank you, with two sugars and slice of lemon on the side. We took it on the porch, as it was sunny and almost time for the Good Humor man. Continue Reading Snatched & Stranded Miranda Jensen The smooth, hard lines of her flute case dig into the flesh of her thighs when she pushes through rush hour. Don’t be careless with your instrument, Andy. That’ s your livelihood. A pizzicato of rain kisses her almost-smile when she climbs out of Kings Cross, a clock encased by redbrick boasting a new time zone. Men with suits shove past, scowling at her stupor, so she hauls her life’s belongings and herself out of the way. When she laughs, it tastes sour, and she has to clamp her lips together to keep from puking. Andy, you’ve never even left the country. You hate big cities. Why on earth would you go to London without me? Continue Reading The Older We Get John Grey he has become his own father. Continue Reading Alley Cats John Grey Do I care that the two cats in the alley are having better sex than I am? Yes, I do care. Continue Reading Lessons in Iconoclastic Art John Grey Fight harmony where you will – sever closeness with a blunt saw – unzip unity and give each country in turn your very best castration – Continue Reading Rousted John Grey The light apparently is unaware the weekend has begun, Continue Reading ADHD at Nina's Aisling Cruz Consider, drip coffee, no refills, scattering of keystrokes from an adjoining table. Continue Reading comb Alex Masse my damp, dark curls unfurl part like curtains around your fingers Continue Reading groundwater Tara Labovich i want to find water where water has not been found. Continue Reading eating with friends on the verge of divorce C.C. Apap the plates are older than either of the other relationships at the table. Continue Reading if our bed is the labyrinth C.C. Apap am I the hero, seeking, tracing a path to some dark, unknown center, both hopeful and afraid? Continue Reading nothing burns for me— C.C. Apap I speak in metaphor only on the page, and never as prophecy. Continue Reading a maskil C.C. Apap all praise begins with hiding— Continue Reading primary sources C.C. Apap what happened to that book— that one which we both loved, desperately, one summer, Continue Reading the lonely blueberry Tara Labovich i hear guys in suits are making fruit illegal. they go ripping out the woman-trees at the roots, calling sustenance “mess!” yada, yada! it’s so rare now to find fruit in the mess. it’s so rare to find sweetness sticking to pavement. Continue Reading thesaurus Tara Labovich i slip my hand into your pocket when we walk side by sidewalk—only half for warmth—you say you imagine us december, in the mountains—i say, Continue Reading coming back Tara Labovich the awning caught a bucket of rain for you, left a dry patch big enough to stand and watch the streets turn when rain becomes snow. cat curled in bed early, left a warm spot. now she’s waiting at the window for you to come inside. Continue Reading One Less Treasure Nicolò Potestà on the concrete, I found something with all the love left inside, Continue Reading Helping My Niece Move in Brooklyn Kevin Grauke From one tiny room to another across town, up and down oniony flights of August stairs, I carry everything she asks me to, doing my best to be as strong as her directing finger assumes me to be. I’m good , I swagger when she asks if a break is something I might need, and I wonder why I pretend. What harm would a break do me, heaving and wheezing as I am, despite my best efforts to hide and deceive? Continue Reading Selling Mrs G’s Elizabeth Cox It’s admirable, how well this home is kept. Yes, you heard, bit of a celebrity. No, I’ve not watched any either, but in the office they say she was a demon with the duster. You’ll have noticed already with your shoes off, the depth of the carpet here, where your toes in winter will sink into the slate-diamond grey shag and keep you from remembering the rubber-soled slippers kicked deep under the bed on Thursday mornings, when you’ve heard the trundle of rubbish trucks entering the estate crunching on the not-quite-gritted tarmac and so quickly gathered the offending sacks, moving from carpet to doorstep and forcing you to maybe pad upstairs, compost bag still in hand, heavy, sodden with coffee grounds and slimy with the remnants of a bag of bistro salad, getting on your knees to tease the slippers out from under the bed, bag spending too long over that rich fur, moisture gathering at the weight of its bulge, precipitously close to dripping. Or the carpet might have you so fooled that you rush outside in the frost, abandoning all thought of shoes, so nurtured have you been by the carpet, that you slide on the strangely frictionless front garden, being as it is bricked up for extra parking, and the rough soles of your feet are too frictionless, softened by the comfort you’ve moved into. Continue Reading The Wall Skivjana Neza When I lean over and take a bite out of the clouds I taste the turquoise wall I ate when I was four Crumbling in my mouth Continue Reading Blame My Mother, Sometimes I Still Do Anni Martel He told me not to which was the only information I needed to make the opposite decision and let go. Continue Reading The Cat Has A Smoking Problem Joshua Jones Lofflin It’s been obvious for weeks now, the butts piling up beneath the ficus’s leaves or underneath the bed. When I start finding them in the corners of the kitchen, I finally say something to Lauren. She sighs, says she’ll have a word with him. Asks me not to make a big deal over it. Says he only has one or two when he’s stressed. “He’s a cat,” I say. “What can he possibly be stressed about?” Continue Reading The Way Home Ann Sproul The clouds aren’t for me. I thought, at some point, that they were, that I could carve a home out of water vapor, but I would only ever melt through. I would crash from the sky, and I would not be the pretty kind of shooting star but just the dying girl on your back porch. You’d open the door to smashed bits of tile and skin and bones, and then you’d put on that disappointed face and take me back home. But when I was a kid, and maybe sometimes now, I used to jump as high as I could. Continue Reading The News Jake Goldwasser I smoked what was left of my pipe and tidied my house. I thought about how alone I would look if a camera was hidden. I folded a few months of laundry and spackled the drawers. I gathered the cobwebs and laid them onto a plate one strand at a time. I imagined a hammock’s day in the mild sun. I twisted the clock to display a time I preferred. Continue Reading I Can't Sustain You Ewen Glass Rock-pool eyes, kindling in my cradle. I suspect he’s fretting when his arms spasm but it’s my chest he’s worrying. Stop-motion moves – at play or clutch – his head dips to bone, a plate. ‘I can’t sustain you, son, like you do me.’ Continue Reading

Gotham Literature makes writing an easy, enriching part of everyday life. We are the premier destination for short-form fiction, poetry, and comics that can be read in 5 minutes or less. Effortless access to excellent writing Make literature part of your everyday life. Gotham Literature publishes high-quality stories, poems and comics that you can read in under 5 minutes. Get carefully curated literature sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter. Featured Content "the lonely blueberry" by Tara Labovich i hear guys in suits are making fruit illegal. they go ripping out the woman-trees at the roots, calling sustenance “mess!” yada, yada! it’s so rare now to find fruit in the mess. it’s so rare to find sweetness sticking to pavement. but! when you do, it is always sacrament. maybe it’s under the spared trees at the edge of us all. maybe FINISH READING "ADHD at Nina's" by Aisling Cruz Consider, drip coffee, no refills, scattering of keystrokes from an adjoining table. If we’re not careful, time takes over the cup’s dark interior. If we’re not careful, we might not make it over the corner, bested again by dopaminergic FINISH READING "The Machines" by Katerina Sutton Every month we followed Dad to the driveway and watched the delivery man haul another machine into the living room. There was a rowing machine and a stationary bicycle and an elliptical. Dad named them after women I didn’t recognize, always from the first half of the alphabet. FINISH READING "I Can't Sustain You" by Ewen Glass Rock-pool eyes, kindling in my cradle. I suspect he’s fretting when his arms spasm but it’s my chest he’s worrying. Stop-motion moves – at play or clutch – his head dips to bone, a plate. ‘I can’t sustain you, son, like you do me.’ FINISH READING "The Cat Has a Smoking Problem" by Joshua Jones Lofflin It’s been obvious for weeks now, the butts piling up beneath the ficus’s leaves or underneath the bed. When I start finding them in the corners of the kitchen, I finally say something to Lauren. She sighs, says she’ll have a word with him. Asks me not to make a big deal over it. Says he only has one or two when he’s stressed. “He’s a cat,” I say. “What can he possibly be stressed about?” FINISH READING VIEW ALL CONTENT

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Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter. C0llection of Love Poems if our bed is the labyrinth by C.C. Apap am I the hero, seeking, tracing a path to some dark, unknown center, both hopeful and afraid? Finish reading I quiver when you touch me by Ann Youmans Good grief it's so obvious I see the quivering leaves and I remember you, feather-light fingers brushing across my skin Finish reading Danse Macabre by Wes Viola There are ghosts of us dancing: under a railway arch, in a graveyard in France, in a vineyard in Nebraska, Finish reading Monstrous Lover by Wes Viola Sometimes you know they’re monsters on the way in, sometimes you only see their tail on the way out. thesaurus by Tara Labovich i slip my hand into your pocket when we walk side by sidewalk—only half for warmth—you say you imagine us december, in the mountains—i say, what poem today?—you wrap your warmth careful Finish reading a maskil by C.C. Apap the things that we conceal beneath covers, within safes secret chambers, behind locked lips and closed doors, the layers Finish reading primary sources by C.C. Apap what happened to that book— that one which we both loved, desperately, one summer, stealing it from one another Finish reading Me and My Good Humor by Betsy Robinson Darwinkle cleared his throat and announced that he loved me, had always loved me, and was ravenous for my body. Finish reading

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VIEW ALL CONTENT Witness. Fatihah Quadri My sister was dressed in black, her grey scarf like my grandmother’s hair. The sun was on vacation, the women were busy taking naps. The evening wore a cloudy shirt. The girls had followed the wind. The field was empty. No eye could see us. The river was cold. We were too eager to swim. A man was hiding in the water. A hand was holding my mouth. Something took my voice .away Fatihah Quadri Eniola is a Nigerian page and performance poet who uses poetry as a tool for advocacy. She is a strong advocate for gender equality, human rights, and community issues. Fatihah is the winner of the inaugural Pawner's Paper Performance Poetry Prize for Peace and the 2025 Centre for Black Art and African civilization Poetry Prize, among other accolades. Her works have been published in Torch Literary Arts, The West Trade Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, and more. She has a background in Law from the University of Ibadan. She tweets @fatihahquadri Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter.

VIEW ALL CONTENT Indigenous. Fatihah Quadri You have your mother's thighs, the kind that men search for in dreams, wake up feeling sweaty. The kind that scares your brother in the living room. You are a silent fire, another word for Fitna. Your city is a war zone, your uncles grow up fighting people they do not know, they take blades to mosques and smuggle daggers into churches. They hide knives in the heart of a small bible. They return home missing, return home smelling of bombs. Now the camera looks deep into your face, a sudden glitch, tells you to narrate home in a single sentence. Your mouth, the taste of fermented grief. Fatihah Quadri Eniola is a Nigerian page and performance poet who uses poetry as a tool for advocacy. She is a strong advocate for gender equality, human rights, and community issues. Fatihah is the winner of the inaugural Pawner's Paper Performance Poetry Prize for Peace and the 2025 Centre for Black Art and African civilization Poetry Prize, among other accolades. Her works have been published in Torch Literary Arts, The West Trade Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, and more. She has a background in Law from the University of Ibadan. She tweets @fatihahquadri Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter.

VIEW ALL CONTENT Animation by Aleksandra Not Yet Clean Huina Zheng The clothes I’d washed last night were still tumbling the next morning. I crouched barefoot on the balcony, watching. The water had long drained, but the machine kept spinning, dry, scraping. I pressed the stop button. The light went out. The drum spun faster. I unplugged it. Still, it turned. The drain hose twitched. The repairman showed up, a half-burnt cigarette stuck to his lip. His wrench rang sharp against the panel. Whap. Whap. Whap. He slapped the buttons, like disciplining a disobedient girl. Then he kicked the machine. “Some things don’t know how to behave,” he said. “Let it throw its tantrum. It’ll stop when it’s tired.” I pressed my ear to the hot door. The metal button on a pair of jeans clicked against the drum. A drawstring had tangled with a bra strap, like a slow-motion choke. By evening, the soft swish had swelled into the roar of a train. I covered it with a towel, then two thick blankets. Still, the sound slipped through. The neighbor knocked. “Something’s loud in there,” she said. I bowed. “Sorry. The clothes are still dirty.” The machine let out a dry, retching krrrk. On the third day, it was still spinning. The laundry basket had filled again. At the bottom curled the purple floral dress, ripped in an alley by a drunk man. It reeked of rust and sweat. Sour and silent. I knelt, arms wrapped around the trembling machine. Inside, the clothes thrashed. When it finally wore itself out, I’d shove that night’s shame in too. Let it churn until it frothed into something clean. Something white. Huina Zheng holds an M.A. with Distinction in English Studies and works as a college essay coach. Her stories have been published in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, Midway Journal, and other reputed publications. Her work has been nominated thrice for both the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net. She resides in Guangzhou, China with her family. Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter.

VIEW ALL CONTENT Dream Log Shannon Guglielmo The year was ending & I had been stuck in a dream loop of eggplant & zucchini, betrayal, book characters, seeing the mayor in a penguin suit, swimming pools appearing in the center of rooms, losing teeth & growing extra face-parts. That dream where you find extra rooms in your house. I felt elated one night & fearful the next. Then suddenly my dreams became stiff. Nothing could make them come alive again. Maybe I had read too many sad stories & my mind longed to the fake-pretend-past of when I thought how boring the life ahead of me seemed. I went looking for trouble & now I was too late. The waking hours were the labyrinth. The night was calm and peaceful. I’d ask in my dreams: How can I fix it? And the answer would always be plain, I’d be incredulous why I didn't think of it before. The last night of the year, I dreamt we traveled by horseback to a cave, it was unmagical & brown, no dust and no lore, we met a serpent. He took our tongues in exchange for us staying together forever. I got my wish and gave up my tongue, my voice, my language-soul. When I woke I pressed my tongue on the roof of my mouth, widened it luxuriously around my molars & wept with relief. Shannon Guglielmo is a poet and math teacher in New York City. Her recent work is featured in Rogue Agent, Bombay Literary Magazine, Right Hand Pointing and Willows Wept Review. She is the founder and organizer of a no-fee poetry workshop that connects poets from New York and Massachusetts to strengthen their craft. She is a recipient of the Fund for Teachers Award and the Math for America Master Teacher Fellowship. Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter.

VIEW ALL CONTENT Quarry Hugh Findlay A slow whispering river, shallow ice pools slosh. A lone gray fox drinks, cold shock of wet paws. He fords the river quickly, frozen mudbank crunching. Above, snow rides wild currents; a red-tailed hawk circles, and descends into sycamore, white bark lost in snowflake. Fox and hawk exchange wary glances, both predators hungry, anxious, chilled. The forest dissolves into shrouds of white gauze. Then nearby, a slight rustle of movement— quarry! The animals instantly scan for motion, alert to any minute change of color, shape or sound. From above, the hawk swiftly parses ground, bush, and tree. From below, the fox sniffs high and fast for telltale scents. Together they rake the forest, deep into the falling flakes, defining direction, reducing scope, pinpointing range, until they reach their target— a single cedar, where a branch bends and drops its load of snow with a dull thud . Bird and fox stop, feel their hunger return, and move on. A breeze follows them, stirring up puffs of fog along the river bank. Undetected, a snow hare slips silently down her deep, safe hole. Hugh Findlay’s writing and photography have been published worldwide. In addition to many awards, his nominations include: a Pushcart Prize for poetry 2020, Best of the Net for poetry 2025, Best Microfiction 2024, and Best of the Net for photography 2024. IG: @hughmanfindlay. Web: https://www.hughmanfindlay.com Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter.