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She began cooking the stew at 5:41 A.M. on Thursday. Somewhere in the night her husband had, as was his habit, moved to the middle of the bed, and she’d found herself precariously perched between his chest and the edge of the mattress, the inhabitant of an inconsequential strip of bedding that had, over the past few years, become her home.
By Manuel MartinezOctober 2010A pair of rainbow-striped socks, a cassette tape, the San Francisco Marathon
By Our ReadersAugust 2010The rabbi is coming to talk about the wedding. We lay out cookies, tamari almonds, stuffed grape leaves, hummus, crackers, and strips of sweet red peppers.
By Alison LutermanJune 2010A long embrace, the look of freedom, a riderless horse
By Our ReadersJune 2010I hear cooing and scuffling as I stand on the steps of my building / and at first, with the fluttering, hope for an angel, a visitation, but / then realize I am listening to pigeons, crammed in a window box, / mating over my head.
By Lisa BellamyApril 2010hank fell stepping off an escalator at rockefeller center and banged his head up good/ spent the next ten days in roosevelt hospital/ crankily submitting to every test
By Mark BelairFebruary 2010A noodle shop in central Burma, The Phil Donahue Show, the Tet Offensive
By Our ReadersJanuary 2010Scuba diving, a Mickey Mouse watch, half a loaf of warm bread
By Our ReadersSeptember 2009The Sumner Press, the weekly paper from my hometown in southeastern Illinois, continues to arrive in my mailbox in Ohio even though I’m not a subscriber. A few years ago, when my wife and I were the grand marshals for the Sumner fall-festival parade, the publisher gave us a complimentary one-year subscription. The subscription has run out, but the paper keeps coming, as if a higher power has decided I need it in my life.
By Lee MartinSeptember 2009I wasn’t my idea to call Marianne. I hadn’t talked to her since she’d shown up drunk on our porch one summer night and tried to kiss me in front of my wife. That was four years earlier, just before Jenny and I had moved from Phoenix to Tucson. Now we were back in Phoenix and looking to buy a house.
By Sam WilsonMay 2009Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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