I heard the distinct sound of a sniffle as I looked up and saw a naked woman climb onto a cluttered desk.
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Memoir
Discovering Quebecois Cuisine by Kris Rudolph
Marking Time by Tiffany Hauck
The colossal singularity of thousands of sweaty, jostling bodies, a nearly tangible energy bursting through the air, and enough strobing stage lights to make even the fiercest epileptic wary - these are the things I remember from the concerts of my youth.
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The First Shot by Davis Williams
After my hopes of having sex with my lesbian friends were dashed, there was a lot of talk about how exactly I would catch and transport my sperm to them for insemination.
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The Outsider by Fred Amram
Will I like this new teacher’s spelling lesson? Miss Christie begins, “The first word is austere.” My English language skills are almost as good as my classmates and my German accent is almost gone.
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Saint E’s by Ray Shea
Christmas was over and my grandmother was dying. I held her down while the respiratory therapist suctioned mucus from her throat. She opened her eyes—German steel bright as ever—long enough to see me
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Junk an’ a Po by Kirby Wright
Our father told us he was worried about our mother because she was older and sometimes having a baby later in life made giving birth risky. He said another worry was they’d given her a room on the eighth floor and that, if there was a fire, she wouldn’t make it out alive.
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The Coast by Noriko Nakada
I sit under cloudy skies on a seaside pier where the cool air is heavy with salt. I wrap my arms around the thick rail and rest my chin on the edge. My girls' size 8 shoes hang, tiny, above the foam of waves crashing against the columns of the pier.
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The Reluctant Grown-up by Fred Amram
In 1938 I was five years old and I could already feel my childhood slipping away. Mutti first noticed my developing maturity one day when a loud demanding knock frightened her. Mutti’s face tightened and she pursed her lips. The Victorian pallor, in which she prided herself, seemed especially white. We both looked at...
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Blaze of Gloria by Suzanne Farrell Smith
That Thursday in late September, our basement trips were restricted to fetching supplies. Hurricane Gloria was rushing up the East Coast, and as the radio blared the song by the same name, the sky darkened, the wind picked up, the electricity flickered, then failed. We lit candles.
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Verismo by Vicki Mayk
The first time I heard the story of the opera Aida, I was sitting on the screened porch with my grandfather. Out beyond the screen, the fireflies sporadically lit the velvet darkness. On the porch, the light from the kitchen window cast a soft glow touching the top of my grandfather’s balding grey head....
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