My daughter would rather scoop mud than look for shells. She has my eyes and my smile but she is not the child I was when I was five years old.
Sand Dollars by Wendy Fontaine
Category: March 2015
Measuring Up by Aileen Hunt
My father knew his clients’ bodies intimately. He knew whose shoulders sloped, who had one leg longer than the other, and whose neck was disproportionately large.
Palestines by Alison B. Hart
We’re all on the A train to Brooklyn. The disturbed man is telling us, too loudly, that he spent time in a Puerto-Rican prison.
Toxicology by Stacey Resnikoff
Lola still asks daily what day it is. She asks when her sister Faye, not yet two, will be big. She asks when I will be all better…
Like Butterfly Wings by Donna Patrick
My fifteen year old nervously explains how suicidal thoughts have been playing out in her head, sometimes with a rescuer finding her in time…
Forgotten by Mary Ann Cooper
People were all around, and the air smelled of Coppertone and cigarette smoke, chased by a salty, fishy breeze.
Grullo by Jocelyn Heaney
He came to my father’s New Hampshire farm in the summer of 1986 from Nevada, part of the mustang adoption program.
The Perfect Storm by Alex Barbolish
We huddled under blankets on an old couch while my mother read to us as the wind lashed the house…
Keening by Marin Heinritz
Only movement soothes me still. Swimming laps at the city pool I am in my mother’s womb—in liquid, in liquid, in liquid, in motion.
My Dad’s Hats by Warren Rawson
Of course, he would have called them “caps,” but what he kept on the rack in the hallway were, to me, always “hats.”
