My mother’s mother was a city girl, and no number of chickens – their heads popping off on the block as her husband relieved each body of brain – could make her otherwise. Not that she didn’t try.
Danger By Its Stem by Elizabeth Langemak
Category: Essays
An archive of all of the personal essays we’ve published at Hippocampus Magazine over the years.
How to Move in One Direction While Flying in Another by Janice Anderson
Start with an incident most people see as unfortunate but you perceive as life changing; the skewed perspective will enhance your experience. The incident should happen while on your Outer Banks vacation, the highlight of your year.
A Snip Decision by Jim Gray
In her right hand she holds a blue disposable razor. In her left hand, held taut to smooth the surface and expedite shaving, is my scrotum. My testicles are being prepped for a vasectomy.
Tell Me Something Wonderful by MT Cozzola
When my mom got the cancer, I wanted her to have the best post-death experience ever. She had this thing about being buried alive.
Distant Relatives by Dawn Zera
A short, bald man winks at me. His buckteeth bite on his lower lip. His eyes bounce up and down off my double Ds. He opens his arms wide and says, as if relieved we’ve finally reconnected, “Roseanne.”
Letters from My Mum-in-Law by Nancy J. Brandwein
Peeking out of the glossy catalogs and bills, the blue and red airmail border is like a cheery flag unfurling in the breeze announcing, “Land ahead.”
A Burning Need by Jim Gray
Each fall, while walking through the neighborhood, I become intoxicated by that first whiff of smoke from a fireplace—even if it comes from my own chimney.
The Loyal Order by Debbie Hemley
My father, not particularly a natural athlete or a sports fan for that matter, took to bowling. The game seemed to suit him like nothing else did.
Learning to Drive by William Hoffacker
I look over to my father’s seat, trying to see where his foot meets the gas pedal. His shorts end just above his knees, and his legs are covered in fur-like hairs that my own legs have only begun to sprout… I’m wondering how big you have to be before you can drive a car.
Up, Down by Kel Kennedy
Yesterday, you bought kitschy souvenirs in Chinatown. You rode—on the outside!—of a streetcar…Today, you are returning to the routine of your life in Louisville: to the day job, and the bills, and the being too busy to really write the way you want.
