MURMURATIONS • by Andrea Rinard
Mom’s ashes are in the urn on the table, and I smile with my lips at people who hold pieces of her. I am greedy for every fragment, but hugs are extortion. “She never got to be a grandmother,” one… Continue Reading
mothers
AMANDA • by Peaches Schwartz
I’m lying on the floor of the playroom. The ugly carpet is scratchy against my face, my nose is running and my sinuses are playing a drum solo. I rub my cheek back and forth: It keeps me awake. I… Continue Reading
MUMMY AND THE STRENGTH OF SPIDERWEBS • by Sarah M Jasat
After the sun goes down, Mummy and I sit in the dark. I brush my hair, then my dolly’s, then mummy’s, slicing through the strands with my comb. When I hear Daddy’s key in the lock, I know it’s time… Continue Reading
HOPE IS A HIGHWAY • by Sarah Rachel Egelman
Even with my terrible eyesight, from the top of this hill I can easily spy the freeway that runs through town. The cars and trucks, like hyper-focused insects, running in parallel, zip into my view and out again. The freeway… Continue Reading
IDENTITY THEFT • by Shoshauna Shy
If Kevin stole the lipstick, if he slipped the tube tagged Fuschia Shock into the front pocket of his jeans, poked it between the denim slits nonchalantly enough as if it were possible to pretend his brain was unaware of… Continue Reading
SEPTEMBER • by Ilse Eskelsen
“Guinevere!” my mother said. My waking eyes saw everything as slow, disparate images on a just-light background; she was a flash of red athletic wear and a sudden weight on the end of my bed, a frenzied face and a… Continue Reading
FIRST RAIN • by Sree Sen Bhasin
We hadn’t spoken since we returned from the hospital. Ma and I lay side by side on our backs on a narrow bed in the guest room of my sister’s house. There was no place to even hold hands in… Continue Reading
THE FICUS PLANT • by Jenya Krein
The day my mom was admitted into the psych ward at Mass General I decided to lose my virginity. I was almost seventeen, and past all romantic notions of sex. It was not my plan from the get-go. I was… Continue Reading
ALWAYS SAY • by Kate LaDew
Molly wishes her alive again and jumps as the door slides open. “Hi, there,” her mother says. “Knock next time!” Molly shouts. “You taught me that.” “Yes.” Her mother’s tone is apologetic, looking down at her bare feet. “You forgot.”… Continue Reading
TOUCANS & REINDEER • by Chella Courington
My mother would start unpacking the Christmas decorations on what we now call Black Friday (the day after Thanksgiving when shoppers stampede stores.) The smell of leftover turkey still permeated our house as she filled the air with a regular… Continue Reading