When he withdraws his right hand from the can, I see that it’s Cholo, one of the more dangerous mental patients and he has a blue plastic Gillette razor.
A Member of the Family by Morgan Smith
Category: Creative Nonfiction
Big Sky Mind by Emilie Rohrbach
…here I was as the plane ascended, a 33-year-old, hunched over on my knees and harnessed to Don, a man who is supposedly in the Guinness Book of World Records for the most jumps out of an airplane…
When All Her Hair Is Gone by Jaclyn Moyer
This Thursday when Leah comes to my farm to pick up her weekly produce box, all her hair is gone. Just like that.
Mind Readers and Marble Orchards by Lasher Lane
At the wake, smoking was considered fine near the living, but thoughtless and disrespectful near the dead, so my grandmother and her sisters took a cigarette break in the downstairs lounge.
Never Could I Leave You by Jacqueline Heinze
My board-like body has begun to curve. There is a swoop at my waist, a rounding in my thighs. My breasts are high and swollen and unfamiliar. No matter how fast I run, I am becoming a woman.
Fisher Cats by Marissa Higgins
I was eight years old the first time my mother called me fat. I was living with my mother for the summer, as a reward for her being clean and sober.
Crossing Abbey Road by Laurie Baker
Here’s something you might not actually know: Abbey Road is just an ordinary road. Surprising, given the notoriety of that irreverent Beatles album cover of the same name.
With Dogs as My Shepherd by Corinne Heyning Laverty
No dogs allowed. John said they would eat his tortoises. My husband was a whale biologist and many of the former residents of our California beach bungalow reflected this interest.
Chewing Gardens by Mary Lide
I chew the collars of my shirts until they’re ragged as my fingernails. This drives my mother crazier than when I used to chew my hair, which tasted like peppermint despite the fact that I did not use peppermint shampoo.
Blue Rider by Lisa Baird
It begins in the dark of day. It begins with the turn of a key, a familiar road. The commute, the commute of years, begins without fanfare, without manifesto.
