You get a very different perspective on life when it’s 2 a.m. and you’re cradling your cramping bowels as they play the part of Old Faithful geyser for the night (i.e. spewing scalding sulfuric water every 44 to 125 minutes).Read More
Picture this: I’m sitting at a table just outside the action in a bar in Darling Harbour, drunk on one too-expensive vodka soda and one-too-many cups of pregame goon. My head’s spinning. I rest it on my hand to prevent it from swiveling off my neck.Read More
Old Crazy was a fixture of Liberty Park, a landmark as recognizable and immutable as the mermaid fountain in the square.
“They’re watching,” he’d say with faraway eyes and a discordant tone of immediacy.Read More
When my non-depressed self comes back into my life as if nothing has happened, it feels disingenuous. She tries to connect with me by asking me playful questions like, “So, how’s the love life?” It’s a universal icebreaker, a way for her to learn something juicy about my life. But the appropriate response doesn’t exist for a person whose romantic undertakings have been abysmal. The dating pool is bleak enough to depress a normal person and dating while depressed is another enterprise altogether.Read More
“Look at his green dress!” Ava says, shoving the coloring book toward her grandma.
“Her green dress,” Mary says, inspecting the leaves of a raspberry plant with knobby fingers.
I shoot my mother a look.Read More
We’re thirteen years old and about to smoke pot for the first time. We’re at my house because the woods in my backyard stretch for acres, uninterrupted. The same woods where we learned how to build a campfire in Cub Scouts all those years ago.Read More
Regardless of the reason for doing it, killing the dog in the story feels like a cheap emotional ploy. I think it’s a common trap for new writers to fall into because we learn pretty quickly that “happy” stories are boring and even a little juvenile. Killing the dog is an easy way to impose grief on a reader because virtually everyone likes dogs.Read More
It was the responsibility of the women in my family to feed the Rocklings, which were contentious, antagonistic creatures, according to my grandmother. They used to bang on their drums and march down from the mountain to plunder our village.Read More
When I first started college I found the whole experience somewhat perplexing. How do I keep up with all the coursework? How do I pretend to look interested in football? What even is a Student Union??? I attempted to track my progress throughout the year by listing my newfound knowledge in a Word document.Read More
grandma mends my sleeve
and soon my knotty willow
is only a stump