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.
During the months when my parents’ dream of owning a farm died, I became a sleepwalker, and Dad became ever more diligent about hygiene. He shaved twice a day: once before the sun rose and again just before sleep. He kept his steel-toed work boots dirt-free, the leather mink-oiled, the laces neatly double knotted.
By Doug CrandellJanuary 2014When I was nineteen, I thought, If I haven’t published a novel by the time I’m twenty-one, I’ll be all washed up. While studying creative writing in graduate school, I thought, If I haven’t published a novel by the time I’m twenty-five, I’ll be all washed up. At thirty-five I quit drinking and thought, Now I really have to publish a novel, or I’m all washed up.
By Cary TennisJanuary 2014After my dad ran off with a bank teller with great teeth, my mom and I moved in with her boyfriend, Ronny. I was fifteen and needed a job, so I applied for a position at Marvel Sands State Beach, and I was hired. During the day I sat in a booth at the entrance of the parking lot and sold tickets. I liked it out there, especially in the morning when fog curled around the booth.
By Emma Duffy-ComparoneDecember 2013A bowl of kibble, Christmas dinner, exotic spaghetti
By Our ReadersNovember 2013I pull the old cord from the base, / its black cloth rotted from the wires, / because my mother says this brass desk lamp / belonged to her great-grandmother
By Sarah Pemberton StrongNovember 2013My mother was always afraid I would grow up to disgrace her and my family, and I did.
By Carolyn MillerNovember 2013You think you can feel the peace in this room. A line from Matthew comes to you: “Forgive us as we forgive . . .” Something is happening here with the light and the birds and the wind outdoors: a transformation from despair to readiness. You call for your mother.
By Margaret McMullanOctober 2013I climb back in bed, rest my head on his chest. Spooned against the warm curl of his body, I feel the damp toads sleeping in the cave of my chest awaken. One by one, they hop away.
By Kathleen FoundsOctober 2013Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
Subscribe Today