Gulf Coast Online Exclusives


Tinderbatrachus

Mirri Glasson-Darling

We think that Tinder is just for fun, swiping like in a videogame, like the 1980s game Frogger where the frog hops across the freeway and tries to avoid getting flattened by cars—this is how we feel about dating.


Poetry, Fiction, & Nonfiction   

Two Fishermen

Geoffrey Nutter

For God's sake, / have a little consideration! Why wake him? / Another fisherman was sitting on a stone block, / a stone block glittering with mica.

Strawberry Girl: A Prose Sestina

María Isabel Alvarez

Your husband watches like a phantom through the window, his face silvered in smoke. His eyes, once brimming with affection, have slanted into whispers. You want his puckered face to catch a clod of dirt.

The Nurses of My Dengue Fever

Jason Nemec

She would fly from the islands and fall in love with a white boy like me, start a family, get lost in a medium-sized Midwestern city...

The Lights Are On, But No One Lets Us In

Jim Shepard

We in America have more taboos than we think and god knows that talking about race is one of them. But talking about class: well, that may be even more forbidden...

From the Archives

Polar Mathematics

Delaney Nolan

A polar bear travels two hundred miles and arrives in Iceland. It climbs onto the shore with a great lumbering. It is an accident of travel. It is an animal…

Matters of Consequence

Jesse Donaldson

The other day I received my first offer for term life insurance (how are corporations so prescient?), which has the effect of reminding a man he’s going to die, just as a baby has the effect of reminding a man that if he dies, it shouldn’t be for nothing.

Lobster Dinner

Alexandra Kleeman

The lobsters were dead in a pile and with a froth on their shells they waited and watched us undress each other...

Night Moves

Ella Marilla

At 1am, 2am, the across-the-road-guy decides to start shooting stuff. Cans or nothing maybe. Ten shots each time. After each ten you think he's all out.…

From the Blog

A Microinterview with Dorianne Laux

I think of poetry as musical language, close to every day speech but of a higher order, with a system of notation.

Experiments with White Heat

That exalted moment when, out of nowhere, you are obliterated—completely, blissfully destroyed—by a voluptuous euphoria. A lightning flash of inspiration.…