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The summer of my mother’s illness, / a season so hot and dry it might / have erupted in flames, we discovered / the dog liked television.
By Faith ShearinDecember 2014I’d broken up with my boyfriend, and my sister had broken up with hers and sprained her ankle. She was furious and weeping and mad at herself for weeping, because her mascara was running. She sat in front of her mirror and stroked on fresh mascara, picked up her false eyelashes and stuck them on as if she hated them, slapped her cheeks with her powder puff so hard that powder floated around her in the air.
By Ellery AkersDecember 2014A secret love, a family reunion, a Black Cow candy bar
By Our ReadersNovember 2014Our mother never threatened and then hit us. It was always either/or. Plus, she struck us only when we were at home. It helped define the place. We could not have told you why she hit us at all — beatings, rash and random, born of a fury we could neither comprehend nor forecast — but we knew we were safe at Erma’s house.
By Linda McCullough MooreNovember 2014In my family you were allowed to take the train alone from Long Island into New York City after your twelfth birthday. Because you had reached the age of reason, you were responsible for buying your own ticket and for getting yourself to the station. I waited anxiously to turn twelve, and on that autumn afternoon I rode my bike through the woods to the train station and bought a round-trip fare. I wanted to say something wry and mature to the ticket seller, but he just shoved my ticket across the counter and turned away to abuse a colleague. I folded the ticket carefully and put it in my wallet and rode home.
By Brian DoyleNovember 2014It never occurred to me when I was little that there was a world in which dads did not come home from the bar and beat up their oldest sons. It was totally normal, you know what I mean?
By Brian DoyleOctober 2014A mustard-colored declaration of love, holy pink boxes of leftover delicacies, long-necked brown beer bottles
By Our ReadersSeptember 2014The first bends his knees and raises his clasped hands over his head. Aims the slim knife of himself at the water. And leaps.
By Joe WilkinsAugust 2014Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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