by Nancy Stricklen-Juneau
My mom’s 13th birthday gift was a kitten. Gray and white striped, she named it “Tabi”.
Tabi is important to this story, because, of all the things my mom was forced to leave behind, her name, her belongings, her friends, Tabi was what she remembered, even as an old woman, when dementia’s eraser wiped out most of her mind. Continue reading
by Asher Proctor-Jasper
The man in the truck next to me tore open the paper surrounding his double western bacon cheeseburger from Carl’s Jr. He flopped the barbecue sauce-drenched sandwich onto his bottom teeth, clenching down with his top teeth, and tearing it away with his dirty hand. Continue reading
by Dan Morey
I got her email in August:
Hey. How long’s it been? Five years? Ten? It’s weird. A year is like nothing now. Remember how endless a year was in high school? Freshman, sophomore…being a senior was so far in the future you could hardly imagine it. And every year meant something new. This is the year you learn to drive and this is the year you go to Junior Prom and this is the year you take the SATs. Now life is just one big blur of sameness. Time slipping away as we repeat our boring routines over and over.
by Lenny DellaRocca
The woman downstairs has hired a man to tear apart everything
she owns. Since her husband died
she carries grief around
in a suitcase of birthdays.
by Lana Spendl
When we were students in this new town, my friend Annabel’s house stood on a hill. A cracked staircase led to the front door, and inside, incense and music drifted in air. Throws beckoned from every corner. Sepia photos stood in old frames. And always something held magic for Annabel. Always something deserved to be opened like fruit with her hands.