By Lexi Butler You talk to your mother in Spanish, your sister in English, and then in numbers to order Chinese take-out. And you love to talk, especially about how you grew up in a one-room walk-up.
By Natalie Warther It could be a tire term, or the title to a story about two duckies in the bath. It could be a waterproof turtleneck company, or even a condom-to-neck sex slang.
By Maureen Aitken When it was too late, we realized all the punks here dressed like birds. Ravens in the corner, sipping Cape Cods. Hector, with his Kodachrome Mohawk, surely a parrot.
By Andrew Stancek Still waiting for Dad, three days later, with enough kibble for Rocko, a half-full bag of birdseed for Raa, the heel of a pumpernickel for us. Mr. Stefan is sure to drum on the door today, squeezing out rent money.
By Jayne Martin Our food, untouched and cold, sat forbidden until he had finished his. Tears only brought his fist slamming against the table, upending our dishes, twisting our stomachs into painful knots.
By Elizabeth Zahn At the Twisted Stitchers meeting, I held up my first, nearly finished, crocheted baby blanket. They oohed and ahhed. “But look,” I said, “There’s a mistake 40 rows back. Should I frog it?”
By Susan Hatters Friedman My deep purple vase sat proudly on the dining room table of our tiny home. Black sand from Te Henga was the temper I had worked into the clay.
By Yunya Yang
1. Long ago, we drove in the woods.
2. It was night. My mother was at the wheel, the headlights conjuring shape-shifting wraiths drifting in the darkness.