NONFICTION
My mother has been dead for two hundred and forty-three days. I’ve had plenty of things in my refrigerator for longer.
At twenty, the world is yours because you’re beautiful. But never acknowledge your beauty, or it makes you a bitch.
The hamantaschen have followed us from apartment to apartment, all of the kitchens dark, cramped, cluttered.
The weeks go like this: accepting, horny, hopeful, sad. I’m four different people trying to establish one perspective on a major life event – on the creation of life itself.
No matter how you try to ignore it, you look like him. You look like your father.
I slumped in front of a massive desk, a passive patient corroded with failure and dread.
Our mission is not a drunken pub-crawl, per se, but examination of all possibilities…
Sound engineers believe Alan Rickman possessed the perfect male voice. Early acting teachers told him he sounded like he was speaking from the back of a drainpipe.
The new octopus at the children’s aquarium was named Athena, and as we waited for her to emerge, I thought of the almost-too-faint second line on the pregnancy test three days before.
another self emerges between assignments, to follow the dog into winter dusk and watch the snow fall. Not sociable, but perceiving
What possible use is this lengthy childhood? Surely there would be a selective advantage in maturing earlier, so children are less vulnerable to predation and mothers are freed up to have more children?
Share some abandon.
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