Randon Billings Noble wait|wāt| verb [ no obj. ] List I paced a room, a neighborhood Ate a party-sized bag of ripple chips Whispered “Heathcliff” in the dark Hit myself in the face with a copy of Wuthering Heights
Jill Christman Here is the so-called dead grandmother story the teacher told us not to write. Everybody has one. Once upon a time there was a shy, bookish, bespectacled girl with a larger than life grandmother who cast
Brian Doyle Thanks for your submission to the magazine. I’m honored that you thought to give us the chance to read it. It doesn’t quite fit here, though, thus this note, to say, as gently and courteously as possible,
Anna Potter 1. At sixteen years old, I have “never been kissed,” a phrase I find politically and personally loathsome. I am six feet tall, capable of biking eighty miles a day—I do not
Ira Sukrungruang My father had a porno collection. Because I was alone most of the night—my parents worked the night shift—I was in the habit of snooping through their desks and drawers. At ten, I didn’t know pornos existed.
Anne Panning —from my mother: her measuring tape, golden and waxy, spiraled from storage in her sewing basket. It’s a gangly ten-footer, built for quilts and bridal veils; I wear it like a boa around my neck on rainy
Evelyn Amuedo Wade The use of dialect in literature has always generated comment as well as speculation on the part of students and scholars alike. Certain authors have been considered masters of the art and, indeed, dialectologists have,
The word “benign” has several meanings. It can mean kindly or harmless. Or gentle – which is nice. I thought it also meant “sitting around doing nothing,” but this incorrect.
If you are busy, it can be irksome to observe others doing nothing. “If you’re not doing anything…” my husband says. I would argue that reading is not “doing nothing;” nor is smoking.
I am of robust health. You may find this offensive, given the above. Perhaps you do not feel robust yourself, or must work at it. If so, you may be glad to know that I will get my comeuppance.
Everything about Morris Whipp was big–big face, big hands, big lips, big waist. He lived next door to us when I was a skinny five-year-old, and he had a boot print that was as long and as deep as my five-year-old chest–I know because my older brother made me lie down beside the print so he could measure. He wore a cowboy hat that was big enough to carry clothes to a clothesline, and he drove a truck with big tires and big letters that announced to the world who he was: “Morris Whipp, Auctioneer.” A cheerful little beagle called Rebel would follow him, bouncing up and down and trying to lick his master’s thick hand. From a distance, Rebel looked like a bobbing black speck beside Morris.
Creeping home after midnight requires equal amounts of attention to detail and skill. After years of late nights, I know to take my shoes off before walking up to the door, so no heel sound will clatter on the steps. I secure my purse over my shoulder and tuck it under my arm to prevent it from jangling or bumping into door jambs. If I’ve been drinking, I take a couple of cleansing breaths to focus on the task at hand: getting the key into the lock with a minimum of fumbling. Stabbing blindly at the key plate is the sure sign of an amateur.