Category: Creative Nonfiction

Mysteries by Lish Troha

I know my father died on his bathroom floor. I know this because his landlady said that’s where she found him.

…our house served as a crash-pad for a growing number of visitors, especially as we approached the Vietnam Out Now Rally…

I have recently been accused of navel gazing. Not me specifically, but rather humanities majors in general.

… the VP of Clinical Research looked directly at me for the first time since we sat down for the interview: “I was expecting a Black guy.”

I love things that show their age. I grew up in hand-me-downs…

he scissors are Fiskars, the only brand my grandmother would ever touch.

The check comes with fresh drinks, and when I reach into my back pocket, it’s empty.

Here in this lobby, waiting for my name, I’m aware of my pale face.

“You nod like you know what I’m talking about,” our workshop teacher, the famous novelist, says

The mashed fabric … matched hue to hue my own color, and when I put it on it felt like I was wrapping myself in me.

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