“You have got to be kidding me.” We’re standing in Mom’s bathroom, my brother David and I, tugging on opposite ends of a toothbrush. Until two days ago, we called this Dad’s bathroom, even years after he died.
Toothbrush by MT Cozzola
Category: June 2012
The Shangri-La That Isn’t by Jennifer Tuman
Heat and flies. Flies landing on my head, my arm, my plate, my food. Flies I have to constantly flick away while I eat.
Only Child by Julie Marie Wade
A pretty, polka-dot envelope comes for me in the mail. My mother says I am too young for secret admirers, so we open the letter together. “It’s an invitation,” she smiles.
That Makes Two by Heather Van Deest
You cannot see the spots of blood on my mother’s driveway, the wet trail of red, like paint splattered on the ground, forgotten. Her neighbors scrubbed the cement clean later that night …
Editor’s Notes: June 2012
May was so much fun! But our birthday month (and celebration) has come to an end. And that means a shiny, brand new issue of Hippocampus Magazine is live.
Review: Steve Jobs by Walter Issacson
Walter Isaacson’s biography of Steve Jobs, titled simply Steve Jobs, is not the first book about Jobs, though it is the first since his death and the only one prepared with his assistance and approval.
In Transit by Heather Rick
..Devin was the only person I knew with an actual job. Granted, he stocked children’s rollerblades and cans of tennis balls in the sports department of some Walmart … Still, it was enough for him to be a swaggering minimum-wage retail sugar daddy …
The Writing Life: Writing from the Sidelines by Lisa Ahn
I finished my first novel when I was forty years old and the shock of it, the rifting amazement, nearly carried me away. The pages hadn’t begun as a Book. I hadn’t intended to be a Writer.
Interview: Dani Shapiro
Years ago I was in a little Cape Cod town poking around in its delightfully tiny indie bookshop with aisles so narrow that you had to walk sideways. I came across Dani Shapiro’s memoir Slow Motion…
A New Year by Curtis Smith
My son runs into the living room. He wears the tuxedo he received last Christmas, the cuffs now high above his wrists. It’s New Year’s Eve, and I keep an eye on the clock.
