An archive of all of the personal essays we’ve published at Hippocampus Magazine over the years.
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.
The bat is so itty-bitty-teeny-tiny her body embraces only half my thumb, to which she clings during our first moments. Clings to with eyes shut: either because she naturally re-immersed herself in torpor, or from exhaustion.
I never knew what to say when people asked me what my father did for a living. Sometimes I joked, “He’s involved with high-risk investments.” — “Stocks? Bonds?” — “More like ponies and dice.”
He held it up and out, away from his body and along his arm. He used it to point at us sitting there in front of him. Over the curved edge, he gathered us in his sights.
I never say abuse. Instead, I slide into cliché. It was no picnic, I say. Had a rough childhood, but the texture means nothing to anyone else.
Wet paint wrinkles up thin pages like the skin of an aging woman. A quick stroke of coral forms a sagging smile.
The rat floated toward me. His small legs pushed him through the water toward where I lay meditating next to my backyard pool.
Some people daydream about tropical islands, or tall ships, or sex with their classmates. I spend that time confronting the grim reality of my own imminent demise.
My date was from OKCupid, told me he was bipolar but “over it,” dragged me to three different bars, and didn’t even make out with me for my trouble.
