By Jean-Michele Gregory
look at these rail-thin men and wonder, how could I lay in bed
next to something as small as that?
ON COLFAX AVENUE
By John Calderazzo
He stops, letting
his cane rest on the cracked sidewalk.
By Janis Butler Holm
Are guilty pleasures
pleasures if you take away the guilt?
By Joel Peckham Jr.
is wrong. I am lying on the ice.
By Kelley Evans, Todd Davis, and Debbie
furtive smiles of pregnant women, the inescapable mother-daughter
bond, and the Swartzentruber Amish: essay/reviews of Lia Purpura's
On Looking, Kathryn Harrison's The Mother Knot,
and Joe Mackall's Plain Secrets.
By Michael Copperman
It was always
the same fight: I talked down to her, I was distant; she sold coke,
she liked being ogled for cash.
By Sheila Squillante
Sundays are for mundane tomato sauce stirred through with thyme
and oregano and worship for the sensual world.
By Gary Presley
breath. Ragged. Flutter. Silence. Space. Another breath. Rattle.
By Kelly Ruth Winter
When Tommy is
in sixth grade and I am in third, he lights his house on fire and
tries to kill himself with a pair of scissors.
By Brian Goedde and Dustin Michael
explains the similarities between translation and the "source
text" we use to write nonfiction essays, while Michael helps
undergraduate writers understand why creative nonfiction might
actually be the perfect format for weird, jacked-up stories.
By Lisa Groen Braner
I drive home from the hospital, Mary Chapin Carpenter sings about
trouble, sorrow, and choosing to fly.
Debra S. Levy
I would hear my mother’s voice – low, nasal, reassuring – reaching
across the distance.
From the Book What
By Aaron Raz Link
I changed my name, the first person I told was my cousin, the clown.
The second person I told was my barber.