Here is a town that has learned from its history; a town that does not fight the mountain, does not fight the river. The mine shaft opens its mouth. Holds two bodies in its teeth until they are wet and blue and soft. Come back.
…trays of freshly baked goods—roast pork buns, steamed sponge cakes, buns filled with crème—beckon behind scratched-up glass. I’ve eaten these treats since I was a kid.
We’re in the forest looking for acorn shells, because they make good bathtubs for the fairies. I have only one daughter, and she thinks a pinecone would be a good hiding place – fairies like to play hide-and-seek.
I know as well as anyone the ridiculous, bread and circuses fascination America has with sports but sometimes I just get sucked into its narrative, just like people do with afternoon soaps, teenage vampires, or reality “talent” shows.
The ball of string fits reassuringly in my hand, smaller than a softball but just bigger than a baseball. Its perfect sphericity seems impossible against my palm, testament to the care and diligence with which it was wound.
Even though I now have every book ever published at my fingertips, there’s something missing when I read on a screen.
Caimi suffered from awful stomachaches from as far back as she could remember, and she believed her adolescent anxiety caused them to intensify. But the occasional pain didn’t stop her from overeating.
In 2015, Hippocampus published about 150 pieces of creative nonfiction in its 12 issues. With input from our staff, I narrowed down these hundred-plus stories to these six…
I wake up sweating and lie there as the adrenaline ebbs, running through what I would take, if I had to leave. The mental cataloging starts: what I have lost already; what I have yet to lose; an inventory of what matters.
The first sound is the foot sound, the break sound, the cracking crunch that hikers know… It is a stubborn, short sound, underneath your boots. Ka-krack, krunch, it says. It says little else.
