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Teenage parties, lost treasures, wartime bomb shelters
By Our ReadersOctober 2024Missed calls, misheard lyrics, mistaken identities
By Our ReadersSeptember 2024For six years we’ve taken no precautions / and my body has made no / third baby, nor have we plotted / to create another life, content / to let nature do what it would
By Nadia ColburnAugust 2024Sonja wakes to a stranger’s voice in the boat with her. A man’s voice. A panicked moment passes before she realizes that it’s coming over the radio and not from inside the cabin. “Aidez-moi,” the man says. “Help. Ayúdame. Please.” His call cuts in and out between the fuzz of the handheld VHF’s granular static.
By Kirsten Sundberg LunstrumAugust 2024Listening to parents who are newly grieving, I notice the places where their voices break. It is not when they describe the concrete details of suffering and lifeless bodies; it is in the emptiness that follows.
By Michelle DuBarryAugust 2024July 2024Food has powers. It picks us up from our lonely corners and sits us back down, together. It pulls us out of ourselves, to the kitchen, to the table, to the diner down the block. At the same time, it draws us inward. Food is the keeper of our memories, connecting us with our pasts and with our people.
Jessica Fechtor
A teenage rite of passage, a prison barber, a husband’s unfamiliar face
By Our ReadersJuly 2024“To the Bone” is an ongoing photography project documenting daily life and work on a small family farm in the Hudson Valley. Emily, a single mother, manages their small farm with the help of her children. My intention is to explore the strength, dignity and love that keeps them deeply connected as a family, to each other and to their unique way of life on the farm.
By Maureen BeitlerJuly 2024His inability to tell me when he’s sick, the most baseline, possibly the easiest thing to express, means he isn’t expressing a million other needs that are harder to pin down: If his shoes are too tight. If his ear hurts. Once, my son was walking funny. When I looked at his foot, he had a bee stinger sticking out from his toe. Being a parent of a disabled child means I can’t assume anything. I am taking care of his needs, and if I miss a need he can’t express, I’m failing him. I’m always failing him.
By John VurroJune 2024Calling a 1-900 number, moving to the tropics, writing fan fiction
By Our ReadersMarch 2024Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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