I look directly into the camera. I’m focused. Generations of family gather on the front steps of Rich Valley Presbyterian after visiting the gravesite of our Carrie, who passed of Spanish flu back in 1918, pregnant with twins. Her eyes were Viking blue like mine, like her son, my grandfather. We can only imagine whatContinue reading “For Carrie By Sheree Shatsky”
Monthly Archives: August 2022
School Girl’s Puzzle by Rachel Laverdiere
Rachel talks about the how and why of her fascinating piece: I love experimental forms of writing because the slight remove allows me to express truths I’m afraid to admit. I am fascinated with patchwork narratives—how stitching together fragmented experiences creates a tapestry. “School Girl Puzzle” is the second of a series of “quilted” essaysContinue reading “School Girl’s Puzzle by Rachel Laverdiere”
Lost and Found by Jamie Etheridge
1. In New York City, inside Central Park on the path through the woods, you dropped my hand and didn’t pick it up again. Later you never called and I forgot your name, lost your number when I changed phones, apartments, states. 2. On the subway, the seat next to me was empty and thenContinue reading “Lost and Found by Jamie Etheridge”
Kidding, Kidding By Di Jayawickrema
The first time I saw a thing I thought it was a rubber chicken. It looked so funny, drooping fat and yellow out of the man’s pants on the 6 train. I smiled up at him so we could laugh together but he wouldn’t meet my eyes. That’s when I knew he wasn’t kidding. I tugged my Amma’s hand to make her look butContinue reading “Kidding, Kidding By Di Jayawickrema”
First Monsoon By Naz Knudsen
10. Early Mornings The 5:00 AM train that goes through the Sixth Street underpass whistles in the distance. Shuffling the pillows, I try to find a position that offers some relief from the pressure in the back of my neck. I live in an apartment near the University of Arizona campus. As anContinue reading “First Monsoon By Naz Knudsen”
A Glacial Slowness by Tara Isabel Zambrano
My mother is unable to cry. She’s sitting next to my father’s body covered in a white sheet, her hand over his chest. She’s staring at his face—dry, loose lips, a prickly beard—presses her hand on the fabric. The neighbors arrive for the prayers and my mother goes into the kitchen filled with relatives, someContinue reading “A Glacial Slowness by Tara Isabel Zambrano”
My Dad Says the Sun by Paul Crenshaw
My dad says the sun don’t shine on the same dog’s ass every day. He says if you ain’t the lead dog the scenery never changes. If you can’t run with the big dogs then stay on the porch. My dad says my daughters are so skinny he can’t see their shadows. He says theyContinue reading “My Dad Says the Sun by Paul Crenshaw”
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