I like to observe graffiti, see the stalls become galleries, find out what people are yelling into the universe.
Bar Bathroom Graffiti in New Orleans: A One Year Catalog by Kirsten Reneau
Category: Essays
Women Bleed by Rachel Fleishman
Our blood tells both a singular narrative that is factual, centered around a product, but also holds deeply personal truths.
Necrokedeia for Children by Mark Hall
Mr. Poteat was a fool, and Anne-Elizabeth Tilley and I knew it, even if our classmates didn’t.
Made of Match Sticks and Metal by Anna Davis-Abel
My mother and I haven’t talked about those years in years: the dark years when we slept on her pillowed mattress with the bedroom door locked….
Right Now I am Drinking a Cortado by Nicholas Hug
The medium is the visible section of frothy milk resting atop the overflow, the mode is the barista’s deliberate wrist twisting…..
Ford Motor Company Tells Me About Perseverance by Alexis Annunziata
They remind me: For over a hundred years we have been building for this country.
The Crush by Zsofia McMullin
I take the Turnpike heading south this morning instead of my usual route… I am not entirely lost but not entirely sure of where I am going either.
Me Llamo Theresa by Theresa Okokon
On the inside of my right ankle sits the lowercase letter “t.” It’s not often visible, but every once in a while it will provoke a comment.
Sometimes We Forget by Nicola Sebastian
He kneads my belly like he does every night. He thinks you’re his mama, you tell me, your face a pixelated screen from sixteen hours away.
The Head on the Commuter Line by Max King Cap
I grew up on trains. I attended college by train. I went to work by train. There was a station less than two blocks from my firehouse…
