I felt like television static that year—glossy-eyed afternoons at The Bitter End with a magazine straddling my lap, ears straining to dissect the waves: people chattering, milk steaming, door opening and closing—I was shimmery around the edges. Most evenings, I...
But I didn't ask for a dog. I asked for Grand Theft Auto. Mom says, “There are things in that game that are not age-appropriate,” and I say, “Like killing hookers after you pay them so you can get your money back?” She crosses her arms and looks at me, her forehead...
Handcuffs On the way to see our boy in the detention centre I was wearing invisible handcuffs. “Don’t try to make them like you this time,” my husband said. He was talking about the guards. The bus lurched and my lunch wanted to become free of its cage. A sense of...
Content Warning: Miscarriage, abortion Following the meeting with the doctor, there was no thought of a baby shower. Too much rage. Too much grief. The two were indistinguishable, separate ropes twisted into a single noose. Bullshit about stages of grief, the mother...
the house had jasmine bushes that scented the backyard, veiling the odors from our rubbish bins. It's where my sisters screeched with laughter every time I read the lines “Sing Mother Sing, Can Mother Sing, Mother Can Sing,” from The Radiant Reader because our Ma had...
eggrolls should be rolled tight. they taste better that way & men like them like that too but Ntxawm is thinking about girls & one time one asked to hold hands during a school field trip. & one time at school is asked about what or who she masturbates to...
After signing the divorce papers, I get in my car and drive the three hours to my sister’s house. I can smell the ocean from her driveway as soon as I open my door. “Yes, Jesus, thank you,” Beth says when I offer to take Nelly and Grandma to the beach. It’s freezing,...
She’s seventeen years old and standing at a bus stop in East Texas. It’s raining, and her hair is pulled into a ponytail. She’s wearing a backpack, and on the bench beside her is a green duffel bag with a broken strap. The bus is late. Her shoes are wet, and the...
This la-de-da woman waltzes in. Skinny. Shiny-lipped. Designer facelift. Lenny, the crabbiest waiter, with his crater face, his cigarette breath, his lady-I-ain’t-got-all-day shrug, shuffles over to her booth. She, in her crispness, looks up at him in the space of his...
The autumn chill permeated Ruth’s wool coat as she hurried through the forest, dried leaves crunching underfoot. She clutched her satchel laden with contraband. If her parents found these candles, herbs, oils, and feathers plucked from her pillows, they’d demand...
“He’s bleeding out!” These words stampede through the air, disembodied from their owner. “Somebody help him!” I stand on the museum steps. When the words reach me, I am unsteadied by their desperate velocity, and I wobble on the bottom step. I hope they have reached...
We went to the museum, but we didn’t see anything good. We sat on a long bench under the great T-Rex, frozen in midroar. Outside, your son wound his way through a fake rainforest, raised pathways running under and over each other. He had darted for the doors as soon...