April 2025
April 2025
April 2025
Photo by Filip Kominik on Unsplash
Poetry
CM Pickard
“Broken Wing,” “No donations here,” and “White Walls”
Hopelessness—caked in dirt
and tossed aside,
like the bird
with a broken wing
and tossed aside,
like the bird
with a broken wing
Poetry
Julie Benesh
“Sonnet for Interesting Times,” “Mutual Observation,” and “The Meantime”
You may wonder who will reach
down to perform the necessary miracle,
and when and what: the white bandage,
pristine; the laying on of hands; the soup
and sleep and bread and bed.
down to perform the necessary miracle,
and when and what: the white bandage,
pristine; the laying on of hands; the soup
and sleep and bread and bed.
Poetry
Malcolm Glass
“What Stays,” “Elfie’s Other Life,” and “Crow‘s Message”
This morning I woke to slow rain,
and remembered waking with you
sprawled across my bed in a toccata
of bones muscles skin and breath.
and remembered waking with you
sprawled across my bed in a toccata
of bones muscles skin and breath.
Poetry
Ramiro Valdes
“A Swan,” “Lips,” “I Saw You Crying”
A swan,
His neck a staircase into
The white clouds,
Wings, oars
Of silk,
Toiling
Against
The waves of
Water…
His neck a staircase into
The white clouds,
Wings, oars
Of silk,
Toiling
Against
The waves of
Water…
Poetry
Eleanor Krauss
“The Room Next Door” and “Bright Red Gloves”
The first time Elizabeth jumped, James was on the ground with a tarp; /
they were in different worlds and the two had never met.
“No one understands me,” Elizabeth said. She was lying / on the floor of her pink-striped bedroom and was talking to the ceiling.
“No one understands me,” Elizabeth said. She was lying / on the floor of her pink-striped bedroom and was talking to the ceiling.
Poetry
Eric Lunde
“Impatient,” “Last Week,” and “Now It Is a Requiem”
Leaving the hospital, she said:
“Today, everyone looks like something I ate.”
Right now? I asked, scanning the parking lot.
“Yes. And everyone throughout my life.”
I thought so. Most of the meat
Loaf I digested resembled
My eighth-grade class.
“Today, everyone looks like something I ate.”
Right now? I asked, scanning the parking lot.
“Yes. And everyone throughout my life.”
I thought so. Most of the meat
Loaf I digested resembled
My eighth-grade class.
Poetry
CM Pickard
“Broken Wing,” “No donations here,” and “White Walls”
Hopelessness—caked in dirt
and tossed aside,
like the bird
with a broken wing
and tossed aside,
like the bird
with a broken wing
Poetry
Julie Benesh
“Sonnet for Interesting Times,” “Mutual Observation,” and “The Meantime”
You may wonder who will reach
down to perform the necessary miracle,
and when and what: the white bandage,
pristine; the laying on of hands; the soup
and sleep and bread and bed.
down to perform the necessary miracle,
and when and what: the white bandage,
pristine; the laying on of hands; the soup
and sleep and bread and bed.
Poetry
Malcolm Glass
“What Stays,” “Elfie’s Other Life,” and “Crow‘s Message”
This morning I woke to slow rain,
and remembered waking with you
sprawled across my bed in a toccata
of bones muscles skin and breath.
and remembered waking with you
sprawled across my bed in a toccata
of bones muscles skin and breath.
Poetry
Ramiro Valdes
“A Swan,” “Lips,” “I Saw You Crying”
A swan,
His neck a staircase into
The white clouds,
Wings, oars
Of silk,
Toiling
Against
The waves of
Water…
His neck a staircase into
The white clouds,
Wings, oars
Of silk,
Toiling
Against
The waves of
Water…
Poetry
Eleanor Krauss
“The Room Next Door” and “Bright Red Gloves”
The first time Elizabeth jumped, James was on the ground with a tarp; /
they were in different worlds and the two had never met.
“No one understands me,” Elizabeth said. She was lying / on the floor of her pink-striped bedroom and was talking to the ceiling.
“No one understands me,” Elizabeth said. She was lying / on the floor of her pink-striped bedroom and was talking to the ceiling.
Poetry
Eric Lunde
“Impatient,” “Last Week,” and “Now It Is a Requiem”
Leaving the hospital, she said:
“Today, everyone looks like something I ate.”
Right now? I asked, scanning the parking lot.
“Yes. And everyone throughout my life.”
I thought so. Most of the meat
Loaf I digested resembled
My eighth-grade class.
“Today, everyone looks like something I ate.”
Right now? I asked, scanning the parking lot.
“Yes. And everyone throughout my life.”
I thought so. Most of the meat
Loaf I digested resembled
My eighth-grade class.
Poetry
Poetry
CM Pickard
“Broken Wing,” “No donations here,” and “White Walls”
Hopelessness—caked in dirt
and tossed aside,
like the bird
with a broken wing
and tossed aside,
like the bird
with a broken wing
Poetry
Julie Benesh
“Sonnet for Interesting Times,” “Mutual Observation,” and “The Meantime”
You may wonder who will reach
down to perform the necessary miracle,
and when and what: the white bandage,
pristine; the laying on of hands; the soup
and sleep and bread and bed.
down to perform the necessary miracle,
and when and what: the white bandage,
pristine; the laying on of hands; the soup
and sleep and bread and bed.
Poetry
Malcolm Glass
“What Stays,” “Elfie’s Other Life,” and “Crow‘s Message”
This morning I woke to slow rain,
and remembered waking with you
sprawled across my bed in a toccata
of bones muscles skin and breath.
and remembered waking with you
sprawled across my bed in a toccata
of bones muscles skin and breath.
Poetry
Ramiro Valdes
“A Swan,” “Lips,” “I Saw You Crying”
A swan,
His neck a staircase into
The white clouds,
Wings, oars
Of silk,
Toiling
Against
The waves of
Water…
His neck a staircase into
The white clouds,
Wings, oars
Of silk,
Toiling
Against
The waves of
Water…
Poetry
Eleanor Krauss
“The Room Next Door” and “Bright Red Gloves”
The first time Elizabeth jumped, James was on the ground with a tarp; /
they were in different worlds and the two had never met.
“No one understands me,” Elizabeth said. She was lying / on the floor of her pink-striped bedroom and was talking to the ceiling.
“No one understands me,” Elizabeth said. She was lying / on the floor of her pink-striped bedroom and was talking to the ceiling.
Poetry
Eric Lunde
“Impatient,” “Last Week,” and “Now It Is a Requiem”
Leaving the hospital, she said:
“Today, everyone looks like something I ate.”
Right now? I asked, scanning the parking lot.
“Yes. And everyone throughout my life.”
I thought so. Most of the meat
Loaf I digested resembled
My eighth-grade class.
“Today, everyone looks like something I ate.”
Right now? I asked, scanning the parking lot.
“Yes. And everyone throughout my life.”
I thought so. Most of the meat
Loaf I digested resembled
My eighth-grade class.
Poetry
Short Story
Susan Golden
Vroom, Vroom
I’m Theo. I’m seven.
Me, my mom, my Dad, and my sister Ava, we’re in the doctor’s office. The talk doctor.
Mom and Dad are sitting on the shiny blue couch. It made a squeaky sound when they sat down. Ava’s between them. She’s eight. She’s wearing bell-bottoms, just like Mom. She even has a mood ring, just like Mom. She thinks she’s so grown up.
Me, my mom, my Dad, and my sister Ava, we’re in the doctor’s office. The talk doctor.
Mom and Dad are sitting on the shiny blue couch. It made a squeaky sound when they sat down. Ava’s between them. She’s eight. She’s wearing bell-bottoms, just like Mom. She even has a mood ring, just like Mom. She thinks she’s so grown up.
Short Story
Glenn Schiffman
Death Row
My name is Henry Wadsworth. Most prisoners call me Hank. I am proud of that moniker. Rare is the prison wherein there are any guards not loathed by the inmates. To be called Hank means I am an exception, one of the good guys, known to be decent and fair. It’s because I’m a man of faith. I don’t proselytize, though. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. I don’t force my faith on others. I think that’s why the prisoners like me.
Short Story
Joseph Gulino
The Summer of ’94
I fell in love for the first time during the summer of ‘94. It was the summer before my senior year of high school, the same summer Sammy Davis played baseball for the Vermont Expos. He wore Mickey Mantle’s old number seven and manned his old position, center field. The Mick was Dad’s favorite player. Dad grew up west of the Mississippi in the fifties, so he bled Cardinal red. Stan Musial, Bob Gibson, and Enos Slaughter were his Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
Short Story
William Cass
Reparations
I was admitted through the ED to a step-down unit shortly before midnight on a rainy late July Thursday. My wife, Gwen, had driven me there because of increasing gut pain, but upon intake it was noted that I also had significantly low heart rate and blood pressure. Initial tests provided no immediate explanation for any of the conditions, but because the pain became sufficiently intense that they had to administer a low dose of morphine…
Short Story
Swetha Amit
On the Prowl
I was just a tiny feral kitten when I lost my mother. She went to fetch food like she did every day. My siblings and I would wait on the porch of a house whose family was always traveling. It was freezing more than usual that evening. The loud noises from the roads made us crouch in fear. Then, I heard this screeching sound followed by a door opening and slamming in the street near the house’s porch. I listened to a woman’s cry of anguish.
Short Story
Susan Golden
Vroom, Vroom
I’m Theo. I’m seven.
Me, my mom, my Dad, and my sister Ava, we’re in the doctor’s office. The talk doctor.
Mom and Dad are sitting on the shiny blue couch. It made a squeaky sound when they sat down. Ava’s between them. She’s eight. She’s wearing bell-bottoms, just like Mom. She even has a mood ring, just like Mom. She thinks she’s so grown up.
Me, my mom, my Dad, and my sister Ava, we’re in the doctor’s office. The talk doctor.
Mom and Dad are sitting on the shiny blue couch. It made a squeaky sound when they sat down. Ava’s between them. She’s eight. She’s wearing bell-bottoms, just like Mom. She even has a mood ring, just like Mom. She thinks she’s so grown up.
Short Story
Glenn Schiffman
Death Row
My name is Henry Wadsworth. Most prisoners call me Hank. I am proud of that moniker. Rare is the prison wherein there are any guards not loathed by the inmates. To be called Hank means I am an exception, one of the good guys, known to be decent and fair. It’s because I’m a man of faith. I don’t proselytize, though. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. I don’t force my faith on others. I think that’s why the prisoners like me.
Short Story
Joseph Gulino
The Summer of ’94
I fell in love for the first time during the summer of ‘94. It was the summer before my senior year of high school, the same summer Sammy Davis played baseball for the Vermont Expos. He wore Mickey Mantle’s old number seven and manned his old position, center field. The Mick was Dad’s favorite player. Dad grew up west of the Mississippi in the fifties, so he bled Cardinal red. Stan Musial, Bob Gibson, and Enos Slaughter were his Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
Short Story
William Cass
Reparations
I was admitted through the ED to a step-down unit shortly before midnight on a rainy late July Thursday. My wife, Gwen, had driven me there because of increasing gut pain, but upon intake it was noted that I also had significantly low heart rate and blood pressure. Initial tests provided no immediate explanation for any of the conditions, but because the pain became sufficiently intense that they had to administer a low dose of morphine…
Short Story
Swetha Amit
On the Prowl
I was just a tiny feral kitten when I lost my mother. She went to fetch food like she did every day. My siblings and I would wait on the porch of a house whose family was always traveling. It was freezing more than usual that evening. The loud noises from the roads made us crouch in fear. Then, I heard this screeching sound followed by a door opening and slamming in the street near the house’s porch. I listened to a woman’s cry of anguish.
Short Story
Susan Golden
Vroom, Vroom
I’m Theo. I’m seven.
Me, my mom, my Dad, and my sister Ava, we’re in the doctor’s office. The talk doctor.
Mom and Dad are sitting on the shiny blue couch. It made a squeaky sound when they sat down. Ava’s between them. She’s eight. She’s wearing bell-bottoms, just like Mom. She even has a mood ring, just like Mom. She thinks she’s so grown up.
Me, my mom, my Dad, and my sister Ava, we’re in the doctor’s office. The talk doctor.
Mom and Dad are sitting on the shiny blue couch. It made a squeaky sound when they sat down. Ava’s between them. She’s eight. She’s wearing bell-bottoms, just like Mom. She even has a mood ring, just like Mom. She thinks she’s so grown up.
Short Story
Glenn Schiffman
Death Row
My name is Henry Wadsworth. Most prisoners call me Hank. I am proud of that moniker. Rare is the prison wherein there are any guards not loathed by the inmates. To be called Hank means I am an exception, one of the good guys, known to be decent and fair. It’s because I’m a man of faith. I don’t proselytize, though. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. I don’t force my faith on others. I think that’s why the prisoners like me.
Short Story
Joseph Gulino
The Summer of ’94
I fell in love for the first time during the summer of ‘94. It was the summer before my senior year of high school, the same summer Sammy Davis played baseball for the Vermont Expos. He wore Mickey Mantle’s old number seven and manned his old position, center field. The Mick was Dad’s favorite player. Dad grew up west of the Mississippi in the fifties, so he bled Cardinal red. Stan Musial, Bob Gibson, and Enos Slaughter were his Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
Short Story
William Cass
Reparations
I was admitted through the ED to a step-down unit shortly before midnight on a rainy late July Thursday. My wife, Gwen, had driven me there because of increasing gut pain, but upon intake it was noted that I also had significantly low heart rate and blood pressure. Initial tests provided no immediate explanation for any of the conditions, but because the pain became sufficiently intense that they had to administer a low dose of morphine…
Short Story
Swetha Amit
On the Prowl
I was just a tiny feral kitten when I lost my mother. She went to fetch food like she did every day. My siblings and I would wait on the porch of a house whose family was always traveling. It was freezing more than usual that evening. The loud noises from the roads made us crouch in fear. Then, I heard this screeching sound followed by a door opening and slamming in the street near the house’s porch. I listened to a woman’s cry of anguish.
Short Story
Short Story
Susan Golden
Vroom, Vroom
I’m Theo. I’m seven.
Me, my mom, my Dad, and my sister Ava, we’re in the doctor’s office. The talk doctor.
Mom and Dad are sitting on the shiny blue couch. It made a squeaky sound when they sat down. Ava’s between them. She’s eight. She’s wearing bell-bottoms, just like Mom. She even has a mood ring, just like Mom. She thinks she’s so grown up.
Me, my mom, my Dad, and my sister Ava, we’re in the doctor’s office. The talk doctor.
Mom and Dad are sitting on the shiny blue couch. It made a squeaky sound when they sat down. Ava’s between them. She’s eight. She’s wearing bell-bottoms, just like Mom. She even has a mood ring, just like Mom. She thinks she’s so grown up.
Glenn Schiffman
Death Row
My name is Henry Wadsworth. Most prisoners call me Hank. I am proud of that moniker. Rare is the prison wherein there are any guards not loathed by the inmates. To be called Hank means I am an exception, one of the good guys, known to be decent and fair. It’s because I’m a man of faith. I don’t proselytize, though. The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. I don’t force my faith on others. I think that’s why the prisoners like me.
Joseph Gulino
The Summer of ’94
I fell in love for the first time during the summer of ‘94. It was the summer before my senior year of high school, the same summer Sammy Davis played baseball for the Vermont Expos. He wore Mickey Mantle’s old number seven and manned his old position, center field. The Mick was Dad’s favorite player. Dad grew up west of the Mississippi in the fifties, so he bled Cardinal red. Stan Musial, Bob Gibson, and Enos Slaughter were his Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
William Cass
Reparations
I was admitted through the ED to a step-down unit shortly before midnight on a rainy late July Thursday. My wife, Gwen, had driven me there because of increasing gut pain, but upon intake it was noted that I also had significantly low heart rate and blood pressure. Initial tests provided no immediate explanation for any of the conditions, but because the pain became sufficiently intense that they had to administer a low dose of morphine…
Swetha Amit
On the Prowl
I was just a tiny feral kitten when I lost my mother. She went to fetch food like she did every day. My siblings and I would wait on the porch of a house whose family was always traveling. It was freezing more than usual that evening. The loud noises from the roads made us crouch in fear. Then, I heard this screeching sound followed by a door opening and slamming in the street near the house’s porch. I listened to a woman’s cry of anguish.
Long Short Story
Long Short Story
Novel Chapter
Novel Chapters
Chris Travis
Headwaters of the River Styx
Styx and StonesI have not ferried a living soul across the straits since Orpheus and Eurydice. I think of her and how she clung to Orpheus and wept into his chest, and he crooned softly into her hair not daring to open his eyes. Orpheus smelled of sunshine and song. Eurydice smelled narcotic like a field of hyacinths, and smoke. Orpheus calmed her with his beautiful baritone warm as a patch of sunlight in the forest.
Novel Chapter
Sara Fraser
The Family Fernandez
Chapter 1The new priest dropped consonants from the ends of words, causing consternation and some mirth among the few who still attended mass. Juan, sitting with a group of women near the fountain, an empty plastic water jug by his feet, listened as they talked about him. They were waiting for the bread and making fun of the priest’s Argentinian accent.
“If he were serving coffee, not communion, it wouldn’t matter what he sounds like!” Laura complained. She unfolded a handkerchief and laid it on top of her gray hair against the sun.
“If he were serving coffee, not communion, it wouldn’t matter what he sounds like!” Laura complained. She unfolded a handkerchief and laid it on top of her gray hair against the sun.
Novel Chapter
Chris Travis
Headwaters of the River Styx
I have not ferried a living soul across the straits since Orpheus and Eurydice. I think of her and how she clung to Orpheus and wept into his chest, and he crooned softly into her hair not daring to open his eyes. Orpheus smelled of sunshine and song. Eurydice smelled narcotic like a field of hyacinths, and smoke. Orpheus calmed her with his beautiful baritone warm as a patch of sunlight in the forest.
Novel Chapter
Sara Fraser
The Family Fernandez
The new priest dropped consonants from the ends of words, causing consternation and some mirth among the few who still attended mass. Juan, sitting with a group of women near the fountain, an empty plastic water jug by his feet, listened as they talked about him. They were waiting for the bread and making fun of the priest’s Argentinian accent.
“If he were serving coffee, not communion, it wouldn’t matter what he sounds like!” Laura complained. She unfolded a handkerchief and laid it on top of her gray hair against the sun.
“If he were serving coffee, not communion, it wouldn’t matter what he sounds like!” Laura complained. She unfolded a handkerchief and laid it on top of her gray hair against the sun.
Novel Chapter
Novel Chapter
Chris Travis
Headwaters of the River Styx
I have not ferried a living soul across the straits since Orpheus and Eurydice. I think of her and how she clung to Orpheus and wept into his chest, and he crooned softly into her hair not daring to open his eyes. Orpheus smelled of sunshine and song. Eurydice smelled narcotic like a field of hyacinths, and smoke. Orpheus calmed her with his beautiful baritone warm as a patch of sunlight in the forest.
Novel Chapter
Sara Fraser
The Family Fernandez
The new priest dropped consonants from the ends of words, causing consternation and some mirth among the few who still attended mass. Juan, sitting with a group of women near the fountain, an empty plastic water jug by his feet, listened as they talked about him. They were waiting for the bread and making fun of the priest’s Argentinian accent.
“If he were serving coffee, not communion, it wouldn’t matter what he sounds like!” Laura complained. She unfolded a handkerchief and laid it on top of her gray hair against the sun.
“If he were serving coffee, not communion, it wouldn’t matter what he sounds like!” Laura complained. She unfolded a handkerchief and laid it on top of her gray hair against the sun.
Novel Chapter
Essay
Cara Burdon
3 Words I Learned in Cairo
When I received the news that I had received a scholarship to study on a year-long Arabic programme in Cairo, my initial excitement was misplaced. The promise of exploring this crazy city and building a new network of connections energised me. I bombarded friends with experience living in Cairo with requests for recommendations: historical sites, ruins, restaurants, hip neighbourhoods. I wanted to see it all. Immediately.
Essay
Marianne Dalton
The Muse You Can Become
As I step through the library door, a soft, comforting scent drifts toward me, leaving me feeling calm. Dad whispers, “Have a look around. It is truly remarkable. I’ll be in this main room if you need me.” As I look around, I quickly realize Dad was right. This library is not like any other I’ve ever seen. It is special.
Essay
Cara Burdon
3 Words I Learned in Cairo
When I received the news that I had received a scholarship to study on a year-long Arabic programme in Cairo, my initial excitement was misplaced. The promise of exploring this crazy city and building a new network of connections energised me. I bombarded friends with experience living in Cairo with requests for recommendations: historical sites, ruins, restaurants, hip neighbourhoods. I wanted to see it all. Immediately.
Essay
Marianne Dalton
The Muse You Can Become
As I step through the library door, a soft, comforting scent drifts toward me, leaving me feeling calm. Dad whispers, “Have a look around. It is truly remarkable. I’ll be in this main room if you need me.” As I look around, I quickly realize Dad was right. This library is not like any other I’ve ever seen. It is special.
Essay
Cara Burdon
3 Words I Learned in Cairo
When I received the news that I had received a scholarship to study on a year-long Arabic programme in Cairo, my initial excitement was misplaced. The promise of exploring this crazy city and building a new network of connections energised me. I bombarded friends with experience living in Cairo with requests for recommendations: historical sites, ruins, restaurants, hip neighbourhoods. I wanted to see it all. Immediately.
Essay
Marianne Dalton
The Muse You Can Become
As I step through the library door, a soft, comforting scent drifts toward me, leaving me feeling calm. Dad whispers, “Have a look around. It is truly remarkable. I’ll be in this main room if you need me.” As I look around, I quickly realize Dad was right. This library is not like any other I’ve ever seen. It is special.
Essay
Creative Nonfiction
A.L. Gordon
Running Away
It’s funny because the crystal is pretty. Quite pretty. So, when I stumble across it, nestled in the carpet at the top of the stairs, my first thought is of its beauty. It is white and very clear. Sharp edges. It could have been a sugar crystal. Or it could have been a crystal grown with a kit like the one he got for his birthday when he was little. It had that look. But of course, it’s not that kind of crystal.
Creative Nonfiction
Michael McQuillan
Jerome in Context
He wakes within subways. I rise from bed. Damp floors soil his soles. Rugs ease mine. I pick and choose among possessions for what I’ll need today: a notebook, pen and wallet in a parka’s leftward pocket with my cellphone on the right. A crunched recycled shopping bag for groceries curls in my black cloth glove. All that he’s assembled along his arduous life’s journey stuff a wire shopping cart from which his duck’s gait grows.
Creative Nonfiction
Andrew Sarewitz
Conversations, Sometimes Interesting
The final days with my mother were interesting. “Interesting” has become an interesting word to me. It’s almost always said as a polite way of saying “bad” or “not for me.” The day-to-day visits with my mother were rarely the same. Some fine. Some difficult. Always, in a good sense, interesting.
Creative Nonfiction
Marie Chen
Let Them Come, Tears!
It is 7 o’clock in the morning, as usual. On my desk, piles of books and notepads are scattered around the spot where my breakfast—a cup of coffee and a piece of toast topped with a sunny-side-up egg—sits. I’m reading a page from Haruki Murakami’s story “The Wind Cave” in The New Yorker, while Taiwanese pop songs play softly on the computer.
Creative Nonfiction
A.L. Gordon
Running Away
It’s funny because the crystal is pretty. Quite pretty. So, when I stumble across it, nestled in the carpet at the top of the stairs, my first thought is of its beauty. It is white and very clear. Sharp edges. It could have been a sugar crystal. Or it could have been a crystal grown with a kit like the one he got for his birthday when he was little. It had that look. But of course, it’s not that kind of crystal.
Creative Nonfiction
Michael McQuillan
Jerome in Context
He wakes within subways. I rise from bed. Damp floors soil his soles. Rugs ease mine. I pick and choose among possessions for what I’ll need today: a notebook, pen and wallet in a parka’s leftward pocket with my cellphone on the right. A crunched recycled shopping bag for groceries curls in my black cloth glove. All that he’s assembled along his arduous life’s journey stuff a wire shopping cart from which his duck’s gait grows.
Creative Nonfiction
Andrew Sarewitz
Conversations, Sometimes Interesting
The final days with my mother were interesting. “Interesting” has become an interesting word to me. It’s almost always said as a polite way of saying “bad” or “not for me.” The day-to-day visits with my mother were rarely the same. Some fine. Some difficult. Always, in a good sense, interesting.
Creative Nonfiction
Marie Chen
Let Them Come, Tears!
It is 7 o’clock in the morning, as usual. On my desk, piles of books and notepads are scattered around the spot where my breakfast—a cup of coffee and a piece of toast topped with a sunny-side-up egg—sits. I’m reading a page from Haruki Murakami’s story “The Wind Cave” in The New Yorker, while Taiwanese pop songs play softly on the computer.
Creative Nonfiction
A.L. Gordon
Running Away
It’s funny because the crystal is pretty. Quite pretty. So, when I stumble across it, nestled in the carpet at the top of the stairs, my first thought is of its beauty. It is white and very clear. Sharp edges. It could have been a sugar crystal. Or it could have been a crystal grown with a kit like the one he got for his birthday when he was little. It had that look. But of course, it’s not that kind of crystal.
Creative Nonfiction
Michael McQuillan
Jerome in Context
He wakes within subways. I rise from bed. Damp floors soil his soles. Rugs ease mine. I pick and choose among possessions for what I’ll need today: a notebook, pen and wallet in a parka’s leftward pocket with my cellphone on the right. A crunched recycled shopping bag for groceries curls in my black cloth glove. All that he’s assembled along his arduous life’s journey stuff a wire shopping cart from which his duck’s gait grows.
Creative Nonfiction
Andrew Sarewitz
Conversations, Sometimes Interesting
The final days with my mother were interesting. “Interesting” has become an interesting word to me. It’s almost always said as a polite way of saying “bad” or “not for me.” The day-to-day visits with my mother were rarely the same. Some fine. Some difficult. Always, in a good sense, interesting.
Creative Nonfiction
Marie Chen
Let Them Come, Tears!
It is 7 o’clock in the morning, as usual. On my desk, piles of books and notepads are scattered around the spot where my breakfast—a cup of coffee and a piece of toast topped with a sunny-side-up egg—sits. I’m reading a page from Haruki Murakami’s story “The Wind Cave” in The New Yorker, while Taiwanese pop songs play softly on the computer.
Creative Nonfiction
Nonfiction
Cara Burdon
3 Words I Learned in Cairo
When I received the news that I had received a scholarship to study on a year-long Arabic programme in Cairo, my initial excitement was misplaced. The promise of exploring this crazy city and building a new network of connections energised me. I bombarded friends with experience living in Cairo with requests for recommendations: historical sites, ruins, restaurants, hip neighbourhoods. I wanted to see it all. Immediately.
Essay
Marianne Dalton
The Muse You Can Become
As I step through the library door, a soft, comforting scent drifts toward me, leaving me feeling calm. Dad whispers, “Have a look around. It is truly remarkable. I’ll be in this main room if you need me.” As I look around, I quickly realize Dad was right. This library is not like any other I’ve ever seen. It is special.
Essay
A.L. Gordon
Running Away
It’s funny because the crystal is pretty. Quite pretty. So, when I stumble across it, nestled in the carpet at the top of the stairs, my first thought is of its beauty. It is white and very clear. Sharp edges. It could have been a sugar crystal. Or it could have been a crystal grown with a kit like the one he got for his birthday when he was little. It had that look. But of course, it’s not that kind of crystal.
Creative Nonfiction
Michael McQuillan
Jerome in Context
He wakes within subways. I rise from bed. Damp floors soil his soles. Rugs ease mine. I pick and choose among possessions for what I’ll need today: a notebook, pen and wallet in a parka’s leftward pocket with my cellphone on the right. A crunched recycled shopping bag for groceries curls in my black cloth glove. All that he’s assembled along his arduous life’s journey stuff a wire shopping cart from which his duck’s gait grows.
Creative Nonfiction
Andrew Sarewitz
Conversations, Sometimes Interesting
The final days with my mother were interesting. “Interesting” has become an interesting word to me. It’s almost always said as a polite way of saying “bad” or “not for me.” The day-to-day visits with my mother were rarely the same. Some fine. Some difficult. Always, in a good sense, interesting.
Creative Nonfiction
Marie Chen
Let Them Come, Tears!
It is 7 o’clock in the morning, as usual. On my desk, piles of books and notepads are scattered around the spot where my breakfast—a cup of coffee and a piece of toast topped with a sunny-side-up egg—sits. I’m reading a page from Haruki Murakami’s story “The Wind Cave” in The New Yorker, while Taiwanese pop songs play softly on the computer.
Creative Nonfiction