The Metaworker Literary Magazine
Where great stories are forged.
“I stand at the corner hailing autorickshaws. Many are ferrying schoolchildren, plastic sacks full of produce, five-litre gas cylinders, or the drivers’ wives holding stacked egg-trays bound for grocers.”
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From Atlanta to New York City, I went tripping, delivering packages, on buses and trains, stopping—three days—in Cincinnati. There’s the arc. Greyhound issues you an …
Thijs walks to the hallway closet. Alma calls out from their kitchen. “We need to vacuum before they get here.” Behind the closed door, the …
You are perched on your accustomed bench at the appointed hour, your cigar and the possibilities of another day in hand. The late-morning sun is …
Peg had made good on her resolution to leave West Virginia, and here he was in San Francisco, seasonless though it was Spring, sleeping on …
Then the Billado Block burned down, and I had nowhere to live. “Well, shit,” I said to the guy standing next to me watching it …
