You have been sent for and now you must memorize a name. A new name. A borrowed name. Nine thousand feet above sea level, the options are laid out before you: Get the name right and you see your parents again; get the name wrong and you never see them again. It’s that simple. The…
Snow had fallen, snow on snow, Snow on snow, In the bleak mid-winter Long ago. You probably know these lines, either from Christina Rossetti’s poem of 1871 or, more likely, Holst’s setting of them as a carol. I used one of them as the title of a book, “bleak” altered to “deep” by the…
In the Plan B essay series, writers discuss their contingency plans, extra-literary passions, and the roads not traveled. My father always wanted me to go into real estate. It was in the family: pioneer land swaps and strategic purchases during the Depression kept the Svobodas solvent. My father would stand at the edge of one…
as the voice inside the telephone made crying sounds or allergy sounds. It was that time of year— the particle count high and already a shortage of rental cars and we were all desperate to vacate the premises while you had already done so. Standing between the voice and my self at the center of…
Read it on the Greyhound back before I saw Bogart in Marlowe’s clothes, before the old man bought the Buick, before he changed to dust, before my mother scattered him along the highway to Lake Mead beside a scrubby desert tree. Before I didn’t buy the whiskey, before I didn’t hoist a glass, before I…
One Friday night, the winter I was twelve, my mom’s brother, Tío Erwin, showed up at my grandmother’s apartment in Jamaica Plain with his new wife. She was fifteen. They’d met during his recent trip to Guatemala. She looked like any one of my cousins, only she didn’t weigh as much. Her smile stretched, revealing…
Emerging Writer’s Contest Since 1971, Ploughshares has been committed to promoting the work of up-and-coming writers. After last year’s inaugural fiction contest, this was our first year accepting submissions in all three genres—poetry, nonfiction, and fiction. We are pleased to announce the following winners and runners-up. The winners will each receive $1,000 and be published…
When the camp director introduces God, he reminds us the man is just an actor. “His real name is Frank Collins,” the director says. “He lives in Knoxville and has a wife and three grown-up children.” He looks down at the little kids on the benches up front. “I want to make sure you know…
from the balcony of footpaths speak of the black horse & the dead rider how old the mirror is which brings with it spirits like tracks filled with basil from where you stand sing an antique song let your arms veinless hang by your side wait for the gypsy who took your life away you…
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