An archive of all of the personal essays we’ve published at Hippocampus Magazine over the years.
Hidden deep inside a suburban daily rag’s local section of April 12, 1996, to the left of legal notices, above car and tire ads, a six-inch murder-suicide story with the 24-point headline Two Bodies Found…
This course engages students in the careful reading and critical analysis of your body as it is flung at high speed toward a dew-soaked lawn on a hot night in June of 1999.
I still miss the old way of looking at a black bird. I remember, from my days of less imperfect sight, watching a blackbird huff his wings.
I am five. My mother has picked me up from school after her lunch shift at the restaurant. She smells like cooking oil, sliced fish, and soy sauce.
My father is the wisest man in the world. Children say things like this all the time, but in my case it’s true.
I offer you these two cups of air, said the rabbi under the chuppa. One for you, and one for you. Though I’ll not tell you whose is whose.
I’ve traveled to dangerous places before. I once hitchhiked from Amman to Baghdad, but that was before the wars and the Twin Tower flattening…
“Hon, could you get me a cup a coffee?” asks the voice behind the curtain. It’s a remarkably strong one for someone with end-stage lung disease.
I haven’t attended Mass since before I got sick. It’s not that I’ve ever been a particularly religious person, but I did spend some time on the playground of the Catholic Church.
In a large brick box, tiny figurines stand still in what looks to be a family setting. We have a kitchen: miniscule butcher knife, thumb-sized boxes of cereal, and even a fridge that opens and closes.
