Carmen Maria Machado

When the cave’s ceiling crumples, so do I. Through my body, stone kisses stone. I die.Afterward, footsteps pass by my head. I track them to the opposite...

We gathered for the last time in October, under the pretense of discussing a novel that was currently bobbing along in the zeitgeist like a rubber duck at...

There once were two sisters, close in age, who had been birthed and loved and became stooped and wise and were now old women together. They lived in a house...

I am in Chicago, in dark tunnels. I'm meeting up with a girl I know from high school who I haven't seen in five years.I wait for her in the street, in the...

Mama did not talk about her journey west very much; the circumstances had to be right. When she did—in the electric moments before rainfall, if a rabbit...

Two months into my time as Fred and Elsie’s ghost, they wake up in the middle of the night to find me at the kitchen table, staring at the Ouija board...

Here she is, on the porch, all straw-hair and slumpy joints and a crack that passes through her lip like she is dirt that has never known rain. In her arms...

As they put me to sleep, my mouth fills with the dust of the moon. I expect to choke on the silt but instead it slides in and out, and in and out, and I am,...

The strangeness fed our discontent.

A newly-married wife holds on to the only secret she feels she has left—a mystery her increasingly insidious husband is desperate to unravel.