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”
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”
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 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”
a journal of Creative Nonfiction. Follow us via email or WordPress for updates!