We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use.
We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use.
My mother is seated in the shade of the balcony of her apartment in San Diego, the sun relentless in this desert-become-a-city. She stares into that cloudless blue sky. Cancer has begun its final assault upon her body.
By Kenneth KlonskyNovember 1990A repressed memory, a custody battle, a summer on the prairies
By Our ReadersNovember 1990When we got to the pond, he stopped calling her name. The hole was black, and little black waves splashed against the jagged edges of the broken ice. Father took one step onto the pond, but had to jump back.
By Candace PerryNovember 1989Miss Valentine’s School of Social Dance, jitterbugging in Calcutta, the “big girl’s ward” in the crippled children’s hospital
By Our ReadersNovember 1989The summer I was fifteen my father moved out, my breasts grew in, and my mother told me to call her Eve.
By Deborah ShouseJuly 1989It must have been a real publicity bust for Marilyn and her people. I mean, here it is thirty years later, and I’ve never seen anything about it in all the flood of words about her since.
By Robert ChastainJuly 1989Again and again he flew against the window so mercilessly I was scared he would break his neck. Then his eyes glowed with wrath.
By Josip NovakovichJune 1989Willie Mays was only thirteen years old, but already center field was his private domain. His mitt seemed to have radar installed in it, registering the trajectory and velocity of the ball. All Willie had to do was glide into place, flip out his glove, and the ball would land there, trapped in leather.
By Rob SullivanApril 1989Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
Subscribe Today