The Metaworker Literary Magazine
Where great stories are forged.
“my parents still the effortless rulers of our simple cement house / in the West-African village my brother – the gentle historian” – excerpt from Sierra Leone, 1982 by Freddi Gralle #TheMetaworker #MetaworkerMonday
“Mother would stand barefoot in the living room and amuse six million lonely souls from around the world.” – excerpt from “Dancing Like Mother”, fiction by Nadim Silverman #TheMetaworker #MetaworkerMonday #literarymagazines
7th Grade Sleepover, a poem by Caitlin O’Halloran @selfcaremaven #TheMetaworker #MetaworkerMonday
“When I was ten my mother fell in love with someone who was not my father.” – excerpt from Amoral Familism by Sophia Carroll @torpor_chamber
“It was a kind of transformation we could witness like astral projection but of our entire being. We spoke broken English, which she was proud of.” – Excerpt from “My English Teacher” by Bharti Bansal @useless_thought25 #MetaworkerMonday #TheMetaworker
A Knight in Shining Armor for a Dad by Maxine Flam #MetaworkerMonday #TheMetaworker
“The bottom drawer in my father’s room contains his trash. Crumpled Budweiser cans and Marlboro ash, frayed photos from his childhood.” #TheMetaworker #MetaworkerMonday
The boy feigns sleep, but he is ready to spring. Two children stalk his bed, dark-light-girl-boy, clad in spring-green and ochre, barefoot both. The boy …
You and I will read our ways into the eternal whatever—questioning, wondering, wandering under skies grown gray with concern or maybe apathy. We’ll play outside until the streetlights …
Vincent closed his laptop and stared at the wall. The afterglow of an Excel spreadsheet burned across his retina. He waited for it to fade …
At fifteen Anne bought her first action figure—Wonder Woman. When she saw her on television in her blue starry shorts, legs rising out of red …
In vest, short shorts, quick reflex points, our up and over, chain-link fence, we traded jokes, paraded skills, especially under watch of girls, as learnt …
The man I loved as my grandfather was a tall, strong, broad-shouldered man who carried a fake ear in his back pocket. With his indigo …
The man’s souvenirs were in a box somewhere. He had kept it handy for a few years then put it away. In a desk, then …
Pauli stood at the railing on the back deck and flicked glances at the giant red sun fall slowly to the ground. The surrounding sky …
“Is that Dorothy?” Elaine asked as we turned up the driveway. An old woman stood next to the mailbox. Her white legs with blue veins …
You tell me I’m a bird. Calloused hands pinch into my ribs and lift me overhead. In your eyes, I’m soaring through the clouds like …
Episode Description: Editors Matthew, Elena, and Melissa talk to Stella Meadows about her brilliant nonfiction (as well as what makes brilliant nonfiction in general), identity, …
You’ve seen water towers, right? Those huge, tall jugs of water along the roadside. They’re usually a mess—washed out paint and rust, covered by graffiti, …
It was the days where the night would not come, for the sun held the sky hostage just by a look. It was the tyrannical …
You wake up on the fourth floor to the garbled coo of some window-shopping pigeons, dress quickly, pick at breakfast, clamber down the dark stairwell …
Wisteria drapes green bean-knuckled fingers over my forehead, the anointing oil of rain dripping. Robin poised upon the weathered, mossy timber spine of the swing …
I always mowed the wild green hair of lawn, eyes of corn stalking me from across the street. Steering Dad’s tractor in the shapeof a nose ring …
Sam Karrington’s size-six loafers kicked back and forth atop the wooden bench under the train stop awning. The train would be here soon, he thought—no …
The summer after my first year of college the KKK had a presence on Main Street in my hometown for a few hours. Don’t know …
I don’t care if I’m dead as long as I’m still alive, in Heaven I mean though not Hell, I might be dead but I’ll …
daytime gutter vomit scared to change your way from one that has been making you money color-segregated schools for the blind the increasing pressure to …
This one’s a very special post. We’re presenting to you the work of the highly accomplished Albanian Poet Irsa Ruçi, both translated, and in its …
The reason I write is a simple one: I’ve always done it, and I can’t imagine living my life without writing. When I think about …
How am I fitting in this right now? It’s been years, centuries since I was small enough to terrorize villages and miniature pedestrians in this …
