Category Archives: Nonfiction

Melancholandia

by Jarelle Kraus

Buenos Aires, 1992:

It’s a sultry February here below the equator, where Nazis are harbored, where machismo reigns. Where Argentina’s middleweight boxing champion, Carlos Monzón, flung his wife out the window to her death. “My dinner was late for the second night in a row,” Monzón explained.

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Eggs, Rice, & Spam

by Noelle Marie Falcis

Recently, I made myself a bowl of eggs, rice, and spam. I had woken up craving it in a way that I had not longed for something in a long time. It was one of those mouth salivating, jaw aching type of wants that don’t disappear until you satiate it. I jumped from bed, stretching first one way and then the other, stepping lightly across my wooden floors. I’m on my own now; I haven’t lived at home since I was a teenager— that’s Continue reading

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Here and There

by Kate Tagai

Here: South Pacific, July 2011

Anna seems to grow from the woven mat spread between her and the dusty ground.  Her skirt’s elastic stretched and sagging around her waist from so much wear, like Anna’s own skin.  She is eighty, or maybe closer to ninety years old.  She doesn’t know, but measures her years in world events and the thirteen children she has raised.  Continue reading

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The Last Hundred Days

by Richard Key

June 4. I’m one hundred days from turning sixty. Seems not so long ago I calculated that I had exactly one thousand days remaining in my fifties, which didn’t bother me so much. That’s almost three years. You could get a law degree in that time. People have biked around the world in less time. Sixty is intimidating. You’re supposed to be grown up by then. I mean completely grown up. Fifty is the youth of old age, according to Victor Hugo, and maybe that’s the rub. Now even the youth of old age is fading fast. My “over the hill” T-shirt has holes in it…and they’re getting bigger by the day.

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Blessed Event(ually)

by JC Reilly

Like that cow-mother we saw once on our Grandpa’s Pennsylvania farm, straining with her calf that warm November day, you too lay impatient and writhing for your boy to come.  Late, it would be the first of many times he’d defy you.  “No drugs,” you’d said.

Tied to machines and IV, the nurse-call button strangled in your right hand like a dead mouse, you were trussed as the turkey your in-laws would roast ten days later on Thanksgiving.  Something tar-like and unholy lurked in your all-pupil eyes.  Curses no devil dare speak steamed from your mouth like poisoned milk. Continue reading

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