A real town. Mostly.
Inwood is an unincorporated community: no mayor, no stoplight, a few houses strung along the Lincoln Highway, and fields that run flat to the horizon. The census calls it “a populated place.”
The journal that took its name collected poems and stories about towns like this one, and about the things that happen in them when nobody is watching: farmhouse hauntings, train-whistle omens, silos that hum, and neighbors who would rather not say.
This archive is closed to submissions. Everything here is free to read.
The Inwood bookshelf
Fourteen paperbacks from the smallest press in the world: the nine numbered issues and five more. Pull one off the shelf.
Latest stories
Cicada Summer by Elizabeth Brown
John was pleased that the woman sat next to him on the commuter train, even though it was the only open seat. She could have stood in the vestibule, he…
The Small Hours
Song of Salvation by Angela J. Latham
Can you see it there, along the bottom of the photograph? The black writing against the man-in-black clothing makes it difficult, but once you spot it, it’s pretty clear. I…
Fallow Ground
Remembering my Uncle Johnny’s Face By Helen Falandes
My Uncle Johnny’s face was badly burned when he was a child; the aunties never stopped talking about it, with hushed voices and tsk- tsking at every family gathering: it…
Fallow Ground
Breaking Up in a Small Town By Helen Falandes
With whom do you talk when you are breaking up in a small town? If you end up back together so much will need to be ignored at the next…
Fallow Ground
Farm Boys Thomas Cannon
farm boys fight to be counter-productive. they wreck stuff a wealth of chores split before and after school but even on busy farms Childhood has free time break the branches…
Fallow Ground
Corporeality by Cameron Morse
Day before the stay-at-home order goes into effect, I lace my ears, muzzle my mouth in gauze. Each exhalation steams my spectacles blind. A postal worker shouts at me for…
Fallow Ground
When Flowers Die by Len Carber
When flowers die, They die slowly— Edge by edge The petals curl, Still, silently, Without complaint. Unlike us, Cut flowers Should be let go Before the first Tinge of death,…
Fallow Ground
Dance Forbidden Russell Schneider
Under the muted moonlight, I, Dance with the dead, Loved ones, Left at the crossroads. Sing with sinners Long since forgotten, Cavort with convicts Once held as lovers and friends,…
A map of the mysteries
The roads and the railroad are real. The pins mark where the stories tend to happen.
- Unwanted VisitorsThings that come up the gravel drive after dark.
- Empty SilosHollow towers, hollow people, and whatever echoes inside.
- Fallow GroundFields left to rest, and the things that grow anyway.
- ReapingHarvest, endings, and the long blade of the season.
- The Pop MachineOdd, sweet, fizzing little stories from the crossroads store.
- The Small HoursStories that only make sense at three in the morning.
Folks who keep coming back
Writers with more than one piece in the archive.