I wriggle my tights up my legs, feel them squeeze at my thighs and bite at my waist. They’re a size too small but my sole pair without a run. My whole body feels sour, all tight and tucked into Capezio. I’d much rather be wearing the loose pants and draping tops of my New…
When my mother’s urinary tract infection slips into her blood, she calls and asks me to come home to help with Haley’s baby. “What about the father?” I say. “Can’t he take it?” “He’s indisposed.” “What about the father’s parents?” “What are you doing that’s so important?” she says. “Begging?” My sister died a few…
Daniel’s mother was only fifteen years older than him, and a few weeks after he was born, she turned into a salamander and padded away on stealthy, gummy feet. That’s what Nan told him, anyway. Each spring, he’d watch the salamanders pour over the road in front of the house on their way to the…
The Lawrences were so scared of their father that none of them screamed when he parked their Volvo on the track between Kidlington and Yarnton. He drove like an idiot—everyone knew that. He was so cruel when any of the children dared cry out at a bend taken too fast that they sat stoic and…
I forget, for a moment, that I am not home. The dormitory is still dark, very dark, but I can see small particles of light stealing into the window gauze. It deceives me for a brief moment because that is exactly how Mma’s house is: the windows have tiny-tiny squares, and sometimes in the morning,…
Every summer, we met up in a different city where one of our families lived. San Diego, Minneapolis, Camden, Pittsburgh. Other than a brief excursion to a butterfly garden or beach, every trip was essentially the same—hotel breakfasts with stainless steel coffee dispensers and plastic canisters of Cheerios and Fruit Loops; hours in a dimly-lit…
1. I couldn’t tell you what we saw in Tod O’Neil, or what we feared. Maybe it was a matter of timing: Tod had that lion-tamer’s knack for knowing just when to crack the whip, a blunt force of personality with which he kept his friends in line. Not that we were his “friends,” exactly—we…
Two boys sit on a log washed white by the tides and wind. A driftwood fire hisses on the sand. Down the beach, the black waves roar. It’s August 1995, on the west coast of Vancouver Island. One boy, one teenager, is pale. The other is dark. Between them, they pass the bottle of Scotch…
She was from a town you would never pronounce right if you read it from a highway sign. You’d have to spend time there, or know somebody who called it home. Her angled bangs fell to her brow, framing a stare that conjured gemstones and tundras. Laron nearly died when he heard she smoked Newports….
No products in the cart.