My barber Ben cut hair in Auschwitz. He spent three and a half years in a darkness in which it would seem impossible for anything to have grown, including hair.
My Barber Ben by Barth Landor
Year: 2016
CRAFT: 3 Strategies for Staying Productive as a Writer by Tom Farr
I started freelance writing a few years ago…Then I started teaching high school English Language Arts and writing for fun… It’s a lot to juggle, but, fortunately, I’ve developed some habits that help me to stay productive when writing projects pile up.
Review: This Is Not a Confession by David Olimpio
David Olimpio’s This Is Not a Confession (Awst Press, 2016) is at turns eloquently self-conscious, wry, and lyrical.
Review: A Backpack, A Bear, and Eight Crates of Vodka by Lev Golinkin
“Did you hear? America is closing the border. The U.S. Congress will stop accepting Soviet Jews: anyone who’s not registered in Vienna won’t be able to go to America.”
The Writing Life: “Word-Hoard” by Stephen D. Barker
Wordhoard is an Anglo-Saxon epithet for the mind in the chest, seat of reason and emotion—we still speak of getting things off of our chests.
2016 Nonfiction Contest Judges Announced
We’re pleased to announce the guest judges in the 2016 Remember in November Contest for Creative Nonfiction….
Glorious Defeats: Lessons in Emergency Medicine by Linda Keyes
“I said, can you get me something to eat bitch?” I stiffen. This is early on in my emergency medicine residency and I haven’t yet learned to reply, “That’s Doctor bitch to you, sir.”
Four Times More Likely by Rae Pagliarulo
When my father said the word predisposed, I felt a twinge of nerves. We were having “the talk.” Not the one about birds or bees, but something bigger and scarier that my brother and I would have to inevitably face…
Gas Masks and Wedding Vows by Jennifer Lang
The shrill woke me out of my sleep. An azaka, one of the newest words in my growing Hebrew vocabulary, a continuous alarm with an ascending and descending tone, an eerie up-then-down sound, echoed into the onyx sky.
The Wedding Ring by Chelsea Laine Wells
I was eight years old the first time my father pawned his wedding ring for drug money. When the fight started, I was standing heedlessly behind my mother thinking about birds.
