- 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
John Benditt in conversation with Nancy Pearl - University Bookstore Wednesday, February 25th, 7:00pm
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.
We are thirty-four years old and talking about the time we had sex…
A rusted mess of barbed wire nearly stripped Debbie of her torso in her first and only car accident.
She asked him, “Does English have a term for a doomed love affair?”
It is what it is, and before that, it was what it was: night, the marks of your hooves in the lawn, the vegetal burst of daylilies between your teeth and on your tongue.
It had been raining snakeskins for days.
When unpacking her suitcase from their trip to the other continent, the woman finds the toy baby slipped into her new crocodile skin slingbacks.
Dad came upstairs to ask me and Pete if we wanted to build him an airplane. It wasn’t a question. Dad never asked questions, he just made people think that he had. “Which one of you’s gonna clean out the garage?” Pete and me both ran downstairs. Took us two days to empty the garage. […]
I did not know it was you at first. You tricked me in your feathered form…
When the whole family gathered—when the dogs of cousins vaguely remembered one another and settled in friendly heaps under the long table around which young parents affectionately bemoaned the little ones upstairs rumbling with the horsepower of imagined engines, and the very old ladies downstairs, passing peacefully away in corners, growing young again, strapping on […]