Dad told me: “They would aim the weapon at one of us, but not fire it. They seemed to have fun with it. I thought for sure I was going to die that day.” He was only 12. I heard his words again when I read about federal immigration agents descending from a Black Hawk helicopter, breaking down doors, and zip-tying U.S. citizens and immigrants in Chicago’s South Shore neighborhood last September.

“We’ve always had this undeniable attraction to each other,” Vini says, his voice wispy from a lack of sleep. Outside the bedroom window, morning milks the sky, heralding my hangover.

Vini and I first met when I told him off for grabbing my butt in a bar Chris Farley made famous with his belly-flop naked beer slides. It was November 1988. I was a naïve, twenty-one-year-old business undergrad, too afraid to chase an artistic life. Vini was a twenty-three-year-old English grad...

Interviewed by Alex Poppe

A phoenix burns itself into ashes upon its death and is reborn from those same ashes. The same is true for Tim Hillegonds, the author of the hauntingly uplifting new memoir And You Will Call It Fate, published by the University of Nebraska Press on March 3, 2026. The reader accompanies Tim on his journey from high school dropout, struggling addict, and estranged father to sober, accomplished writer. Along the way, Hillegonds challenges the reader to contemplate grati...

He remembered running through a field towards the farmhouse where he slept as Allied forces strafed the field. Was he crying? In my mind’s eye, I see skinny legs pistoning beneath a canopy of trees, planes thundering above.

"A Lifeline During Wartime"
Multiple civilian deaths from Russian airstrikes. I WhatsApped Kostya in Ukraine. “We’re fine,” he writes, his standard reply. Then, “How are you?” and “Mom says hi.” Back when he and I were “we,” I didn’t always get a response. When we broke, he ghosted hard. I left Ukraine never knowing why. Our reconnection — a byproduct of war. For 1,280 days, we’ve been in considerate contact. When fighting’s fierce, he writes so I know he’s alive. He sends jokes, compliments, new schemes to meet after the war. Peace talks falter. Battles rage. I eye my phone, wary of WhatsApp silence.

By eviscerating USAID, Trump and Elon Musk are redefining what it means to be American. Musk thinks empathy is ruining Western civilization. We need to ask ourselves if we want to be seen as small-hearted or generous. Do we want to be known as a nation that cares about those in need? A nation that does the right thing because it is the right thing? Or do we want to be known as a transactional country, willing to betray our long-standing allies, inflict intense suffering on the world’s most vulnerable, and embrace those who trample human rights? Who are we as Americans?

He sat huddled with Rehan, a soft-spoken son from a less-famous line of the region’s most famous political family, sharing a pair of earbuds. They were listening to something exciting and revelatory, like desire. When I reached their computer, Aland offered me his earbud while Rehan played a video on YouTube. The three of us hunched together like jewelers around the computer monitor.​

“Al, I think I fucked up,” Luke announced.

Seeing Luke was agitated, I shut my computer. Usually, nothing much fazed him. When our apartment block caught fire, and we evacuated to a questionable hotel, and when our apartment block was rocked by a 6.7 Richter scale earthquake, Luke’s reaction was to organize a party. He made luxury out of a moment. 

“What happened?” I asked, unsure I wanted to know.

Pushcart Prize nominee, short fiction

Sunlight streaked through the orange-red leaves, illuminating the dust motes hiding in the pale air. Bridget, the student nursing aide supervisor,
was helping a chubby toddler feed the ducks in the artificial lake at the center of the grounds. Her gentle cooing skimmed over grass blades and floated up to the window, where I stood. My forehead was slick with a
layer of oil. My scrub top was crusty with dried oatmeal, and my pockets were bloated with wadded Kleenex. Visitors’ Day was winding down. On Visitors’ Day, we got a lot of extended family and clergy and shiny people
who came because the other people who came were shiny and felt guilty, and no one was too ashamed to cry big tears, and stay for a few hours to feel good about themselves and the time they had just put in, and they
needed extra Kleenex from the student nursing aides who were always there.