Most of her life, she liked snow. She had attended a college in Canada called Snow College, which her parents had paid for in cold snowy money from their bank account—frozen money, even, because it was first carefully kept in a large freezer in her parents’ basement and meant for nothing but her college future. […]
Come closer, divorcees, theys, and gaysUnhappy middle aged wivesSalad servers and romaine lettuce eatersHear ye, Hear ye,sons of MedusaAnd daughters of Eve Come closer, my dears, to the cauldronFrom which we summon our strengthInto the pot we throw our painAnd in a few days, hours even,We have formed a soup of surrender. The real magic
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Auntie Barbara is a successful woman. She flies between cities for conferences. She writes books in retirement and shares her interviews over dinner. She speaks with absolute certainty on politics, healthcare, and public policy—never to be questioned. She has a soft spot for animals. Though she owns many cats, you usually see only two when
It was evening. The sun was almost down. The four of them sat at the dining room table. The dinner dishes were stacked on the far side, out of their way. Bruce and Amelia sat together. Bruce’s mother sat across from them, besides his father. Her face was flushed as Amelia told a story. Bruce
Naomi Osaka dashed to the net and, with a powerful forehand, strategically returned Yuliia Starodubtseva’s serve. Her swing sent a 110 mph ball across the court so fast that it was impossible for Starodubtseva to return the ball, and resulted in Naomi winning another point. This was only one of the calculated moves Naomi employed
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I disembark my boat.I am far from home;my beard is long, my hair is longer, and my eyebrows are thick.I am slapping my feet on the concrete streets—my arms flap in the wind like thrashing waves.Towering skyscrapers cackle with a million mouths.Cars honk nasally honks when I cross red lights,cyclists slam grimy hands on their
Home An ode to Calliandra haematocephala Pickled Have you ever slit openIndian green chilies? Stuff it with rock salt.Squeeze in the juice of a few full-sized lemons.Leave them in a glass bottle. The winter sunmatures it to a pickle. One bite into itportals me to my childhood when I couldn’t tolerate any heat. Sunayna Pal‘s
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Rage toward the silent voices, the neglectful voices that stand in the middle using their whiteness as the privilege to be a ghost in a fight that leaves more blood than water to drink. Scream toward the bodies in power that line their power suits with dead presidents as the images of the dead and
Yours was my firstfeatherbed.Box stitched billows ofwarmthfloating undera sea offlannel security. Your oversizedold puffy comfortersealed our safe cocoon.living up to its nameembracing mealmost as well asyou did.We slept entwined.seamlesslyconnected, untilThe unfiltered lightinterferedrevealingstark, prescientshadowswe couldn’t ignore. I got up before youstepping ontoyour cold stone floor.(I swear you kept thethermostat at50)leaving the warmthof your bedand you. Christine
So, you want to cook a perfect omelet, huh? Let me tell you, it’s an art. Not just anyone can master the delicate dance of eggs in a pan. It’s like a culinary ballet, and you need to be the star performer. First things first, crack the eggs. None of that shell nonsense – we’re
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