The only word I understand is monsieur. A sling of unintelligible French blindsides me as I walk down the street; and though I have no clue what this old man […]
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The only word I understand is monsieur. A sling of unintelligible French blindsides me as I walk down the street; and though I have no clue what this old man […]
Read moreOn my sister’s 21st birthday, I visited her at the Cook County Jail. Looking back, I wish I hadn’t been so annoyed to see her there. If only I had […]
Read moreTrigger Warning: sexual themes and abuse In my career as a sex worker, I accept gifts with poise and grace. It’s an odd twist in theminds of other people. That […]
Read morePrologue to a Memoir Based on Love Letters to my Dead Husband By Margaret S. Mandell Sunday, December 10, 2017 My Dearest Love: October 2015. I am swimming laps alone […]
Read moreIn the sweltering summer of 1966, I have a kitten who will not cooperate under the Arizona sun that glares at me from its cloudless sky and scorches all things […]
Read moreI am sitting on my meditation cushion, cross-legged and with eyes closed, warmed by the afternoon sun shining through the glass patio door in front of me. The sound of […]
Read moreMy internship duties in the Fine and Decorative Arts Department of the British National Army Museum included organizing and documenting collections of photographs and rearranging shelves of original 17th and […]
Read moreIt was late at night, and the dog was barking—that is, until she suddenly voiced a squeal that made it sound like she’d been stabbed through the paw. I emerged […]
Read moreThe prison is like a Victorian asylum, and carefully arranged. The grounds are tastefully laid out, each tree with its own hillock of greeenery and rock, paths intersecting over the […]
Read moreJune 1999 Bzz…Bzz…Bzz… My alarm sounds off, 2:00 a.m. A rude but expected awakening. Rolling onto my side, out of bed, I slump upright. From a pile of clothes stacked […]
Read moreI can’t sleep. Deep breath in. Boredom has hit me like a speck of bird poop that I can’t shake off. I’m doing that thing I did when I was […]
Read moreEpisode Description: Editors Matthew, Elena, and Melissa talk to Stella Meadows about her brilliant nonfiction (as well as what makes brilliant nonfiction in general), identity, introspection, LGBT+ representation in art, […]
Read moreEpisode Description: Editors Matthew, Elena, and Melissa talk to Veronica Lupinacci about her wonderful poem, Kurt. We talk about nonfiction, how we remember people, and the general topic of learning to […]
Read moreThe rain cut me a river wide enough to savour my numbered gardens— each with their own cloud. And in each I bred a different flower— a single rose: blood […]
Read moreI was born an old soul they say, a quiet spectator mulling over muddled thoughts, about what I don’t know, perhaps a previous lifetime. I woke to bird sounds in […]
Read moreI’ve probably been inside more than 500 tunnels, caves, souterrains, or underground passages in my entire life. My first home was a kind of cave, an organic one that was […]
Read moreThe poet Charles Bukowski said “I don’t know about other people, but when I wake up in the morning and put my shoes on, I think, Jesus Christ, what now?” […]
Read more1 My grandfather lived next to two wheat farmers. I secretly wished my grandfather was a wheat farmer. I would bicycle along the edge of their fields, picking stalks that […]
Read moreInto the infinite void where spaciousness calls out with a silent vibrating hum. Vibrant electricity gets shocked and magnetized by polar extremes to find coordinated balance at a […]
Read moreThe 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 writing, I cannot honestly say […]
Read moreIt occurred to me the other day that I don’t know your name even though you wear a name tag. I never even bothered to look at it. I think […]
Read moreI was five years old when I first kissed a girl. Her name was Juliana and it happened during my kindergarten recess, on the sand playground. Juliana was a redhead […]
Read moreThe first time I tried to ride a two wheel bike, I remember my dad running alongside my six-year-old self as I swerved down the street, nearly sideswiping multiple parked […]
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