The first decision they make is whether to turn right or left out the front door. Bodie always wants to go left, to the grassy vacant lot that doubles as a park, but he doesn’t make the decisions.
A Walk by Cloe Axelson
Category: Essays
An archive of all of the personal essays we’ve published at Hippocampus Magazine over the years.
Ground Walkers by Robert Hanson
She’d tried tossing other food, but found cupcakes the most satisfying. Lunch meat was too loud, soup was too messy, cereal was anticlimactic, and sliced bread was too easily carried in the wind.
I Like You by Steven Simoncic
My wife, our two children and I had only driven five hours down I-94, but we were a million miles away from our quixotic blue-state-urban-enclave in Chicago…
Straight Shots of Family by D. Watkins
Reds caught a gun charge around the time my deciduous teeth started coming in. My toddler-faced mom — pregnant with Deion — clamped on heavy gold bamboo earrings and clubbed every night.
Sweating the Sweater by Jim Gray
It’s not that pink is inherently bad. I just see pink as the marijuana of colors, the gateway hue to the harder addictions of princess obsession and vanity.
Mirrors and Reflections by Jacqueline Doyle
Under the fluorescent lights my reflection looks unfamiliar—the color of my hair lurid and artificial, my face pale and drained of life.
The Marble by Renita Ford-Collier
Daddy’s in between jobs again, so all four of us are back at Auntie’s. I hope it’s for a long time.
Good Intentions by Penn Stewart
My siblings and I had stumbled down the walk hauling our pillows and blankets to the waiting car… the three of us piled into the backseat and tried to recapture the comfort of our beds.
Blue Eyes at the Wheel by Anthony J. Mohr
My father was an actor who was known for playing outlaws. The ladies loved him, and he had left my mother for one of them. Stan was a balding businessman … who acted, well, like a businessman.
Road Warrior by Vicki Mayk
My father never had a driver’s license during my lifetime. Family photos showing him behind the wheel of a 1950 Buick sedan proved he must have been a driver before I was born. I’d once asked my mother why he gave it up.
