Spring 2014

Mother Moves Us, Father by Nate Liederbach

_____Mother moves us. It’s 1987. Because of the Alps, she moves us.

Fall 2013

Sick by Harmony Neal

_____Police sirens rise and fall from my speakers over a dark driving beat.

Summer 2013

border town by Amy Beth Schneider

_____My stepfather’s upper body rounds when we sit, and he rests his forearms on the table.

Spring 2013

Smile4Waxy by Anthony Walner

_____Some of the following is a lie. I worry I am beginning to believe it true.


Fall 2012

Crest by Susan McCarty

_____The car and everything in it radiates a dull, sick heat.


Summer 2012

On Deadlifting by Bryan Furuness

_____I’m not a big man, but I have a powerful ass. This makes it hard to shop for pants, but it also makes one hell of a fulcrum

Spring 2012

Everything But the Poison by Kelly Magee

_____Lauren was good at pretending things were okay when they weren’t.


Fall 2011

Things That Sublimate in the Night by Mike Peterson

_____I work the midnight shift as an emergency dispatcher in the basement of the superior courthouse


Summer 2011

from “Cloud-Capped Star” by Tarfia Faizullah

____A few days before Eid al-Adha, Keith invites me to go on a evening jaunt with him to the Ramna ____Kali Mandir.


Spring 2011

The Miller’s Daughter by Ellen O’Connell

Ballet was something to say with your arms and legs and feet, and you said it to Baryshnikov and anyone else watching. Ballet was not something you talked about, it was something you did.


Fall 2010

You Don’t Look Like Anyone I Know by Heather Sellers

I thought of all the articles I had read. How complex recognition was. How was I going to explain it? People would think I was mentally ill. “I haven’t ever seen her and known it was her and not said hello,” I said. “I wouldn’t do that.” I couldn’t imagine how to explain face blindness without sounding like a complete wacko.


Summer 2010

The Country We Lived In by Natasha Lvovich

They had lived in a village in Belarus called Shumilino, a tiny shtetl, they were very poor, a mother with four children, a cow, and a garden. This is how they lived. Baba Hannah lost her husband very early and raised all her children by herself, she was illiterate but very, very smart, and when she aged, they took good care of her, until she died at 94. She was wise and diplomatic and when she issued her commands to the family, she called them “wishes.”

Little Roadie by Chavawn Kelley

Your chest puffed out, you held your shoulders back, your chin floated up. Such joy in a task! I followed and watched.



RSS Feed Nashville Review © 2012