He was waiting for the streetcar and seemed familiar to me because I’d dreamt about someone like him the night before.
Red Rabbit by Robert W. Fieseler
Category: Essays
Where Do You Go From Alston Street? by Kat Moore
Peanut hands me three white pills. She says it will help. She says better than nothing. … she says this is my needle, don’t set yours down, I got AIDS.
Holiness of a Garden by Amanda Lightner
A few months after our wedding, Trevor and I moved to a small, red brick parsonage beside a small, red brick church built in 1873.
Lesson Plans by Anita Gill
On your first day in your new job as an adjunct professor, give out an assignment. Call it a diagnostic essay.
Lighting of the Figures by Emily Urness
She flings open my bedroom door with so much gusto it rattles the hinges. This is the first time since I’ve moved back that she hasn’t knocked.
Without You by Milena Nigam
In 1982, my parents divorce, and my mom, sister, and I move to a small house in West Concord, at the time a working class town twenty miles west of Boston. I am eight years old.
They Had Three Daughters by Andrea Della Monica
Italian grandmothers certainly did not smoke. They cooked elaborate meals on Sundays. … Smoking was for gin mills, not ladies in house dresses.
Perpetual Care by Mary Ann Bragg
There’s an old, neglected smallpox cemetery in the national park in my town that you have to know someone who knows someone who knows where it is…
The Great Unknown by Samuel Chamberlain
They call these divorce boats, Jim says from the passenger seat, referring to the canoe strapped to the car’s roof.
I Am Strong Because She Needs Me by Steph Auteri
“DO NOT HAVE CHILDREN,” one commenter pleaded after the piece went live. I imagined her down on her knees, white-knuckled, clutching the hem of my pajama top …
