- Art of the Sentence
- Book Clubbing
- Book Tour Confidential
- Broadside Thirty
- Carte du Jour
- Correspondent's Course
- Das Kolumne
- Flash Fidelity
- Flash Fridays
- Free Verse
- From The Vault
- I'm a Fan
- Lost & Found
- Tin House Books
- Writer's Workshop
Tweets by @Tin_House
Sign Up for News, Sales
News & Events
But more of the chicks survived than you thought, and dozens upon dozens of them now scurry around the room, shitting everywhere.
Six candles on the chocolate cake, one for each of Sherman Moon’s years, and as Mrs. Moon carries the cake into the dining room, Mr. Moon says, “Don’t tell us your wish, son.”
It’s not that I didn’t try to help. When Annemarie flailed, sleeping, I was the one who always shook her until she sat up, sheet-tangled, still half-caught in her dream.
Two dung beetles leaned back on their hindquarters atop a napping tortoise . . .
Baby turtles are hatching in my house.
I hunt and kill and butcher with arrow and sword, hound and falcon, ear and arm. I sight and take aim.
In the spring, the dogs stopped barking. By then our windows were held open with tomato cans or washed-out jars of jelly
He mounts the shaking platform, lays the weight of his fingers on the delicate wings.
He told me to mute the Taxi TV.
It’s twenty degrees and my toddler Iona’s parka is so stiff she’s liable to fall, so I carry her up the steps onto the green metro bus. She squirms until I put her down, then stomps her boots and grins at her freedom while I pay the fare. She’s happy when she can get what […]
Mariela waited for the American boy in his bedroom. The bedroom had been Mariela’s once—hers and Hector’s—
In this bizarro teenage summer, outdressing the park rangers had become a means of rebellion.
On the terrace of the Presidential Palace you lay glued to the scope for less than an hour before you have to take the shot. Tourist or terrorist: It was always going to be your call. You are applauded for taking the shot and saving the nation, although you are not allowed to rise off […]
Her profile said she LOVED CATS and HATED MEAN PEOPLE, but she looked so sexy in her profile photos.
A head on collision, license plates smudging together. He was smiling before the steering wheel warped his jaw . . .
Ma always said that my father hadn’t been a real soldier.
In those days, I liked watching bus crowds.
Shit tends to disappear.
The cold blade lodged in my throat like it always did, the glare of the spotlight hot on my face.
On our walk to preschool lately we’ve been passing the carcass of a headless bird, just lying there on the red-brick sidewalk, rotting.
It wasn’t a city meant for walking, but she walked.
“You’re apologizing to garbage,” laughed Carlos.
Year I turned foreman, a guy I used to know by Cocaine Tommy calls me up and asks can I get him a job.
The lake looked wasted by overly green algae while the mermaid’s skin—or, rather, the skin of the actress playing the mermaid—gleamed sallow and sickly.
Many of the male patients present with a sexual dysfunction we call the Errol Flynn disorder, after the actor who developed similar problems late in life.