Ray wiped sweat from his eyes and checked his watch again. Two hours late. The saxophonist should've been here by nine, but the Quarter...

Welcome to Lit Brawl— Lowlife Lit Press 's no-holds-barred, ink-splattered literary deathmatch. 30 writers enter. One walks away with the...

I have known religions that never asked for faith— only breath held between thighs, prayer in the shape of a moan. I do not speak your...

These mountains hold secrets. Why wouldn’t they? From the base of the holler to its cresting ridge. They’ve seen things our minds could...

I often wonder if things will ever change. Louisiana nights are hot and sticky. Especially in an old southern home. The small structure...

A warm pile of dog shit occupies the living room floor. The one-hundred-and-twenty-year-old pine floors absorb its nutrients and odor. I...

She walked into Pop’s Diner like she owned the place, red heels clicking against the tile, a cigarette holder dangling between her...

Jesse leans against the brick wall, feeling the rain soak through his shirt. He lights a cigarette, but it tastes like ashes. Across the...

Crouched between boxcars, fingers raw and split, face creased like worn leather from weather and want. His pocket holds nothing but a...

We’re looking for art that bleeds. Art that’s been kicked in the teeth, left in the gutter, and still crawls back with a story to tell....

The first little green bastard showed up on the corner of Royal and St. Peter, grinning at Seamus with a mouth full of gold teeth. Seamus...

Twenty-two swipes left today. Twenty-two faces gleaming under ring lights, duck lips pursed like they're blowing kisses at bank accounts....

Deep in the heart of Appalachia, where the mountains fold like wrinkled skin and the mist clings to hollows like a desperate lover, lived...

This ain't no Woody Guthrie song. Steel wheels on steel rails, 120 tons of machine, no romance here. Catch a suicide—ride between cars...

The air inside Voodoo Lanes hung thick with cigarette smoke, a perpetual haze that yellowed the ceiling tiles overhead. Yellow-tinged...

The house had been abandoned for so long the walls forgot what warmth felt like. Inside, the mattress sagged with the ghosts of a hundred...

The interview takes place in a back room of a dive bar on the outskirts of Austin. The walls are stained yellow from decades of cigarette...

In the piss-stained alleys of Reagan's America, where hope choked on exhaust fumes and died, your voice cut through like a rusty...

I woke up across the seat of a rust-bitten F-100, reeking of last night’s Old Milwaukee and someone else’s cigarette smoke. My wallet was...

Parker was a con man—a real good one, too—but he never expected the con to turn on him. He met a guy in a New Orleans dive bar, an...