My Grandson’s Feet I. My Army soldier son-in-law sent my daughter a short instant message on Facebook from Kandahar, Afghanistan one night, about how he had just seen a soldier’s feet blown off at the ankles in Afghanistan when the guy stepped in the wrong place at the wrong time. My son-in-law messaged that he …
The First Gay Space: Getting Back to Reality After the Tragedy at Pulse From where I’m standing I can see the earth suspended thousands of miles away and it really is just as people who have seen it at this distance always describe it. Suddenly it seems unthinkable to have names for oceans, lines to …
The Body Remembers, Tua-Back I remember this time in color and images with no sound. I remember my oversized multi-colored coat that I seem to be wearing in every picture. I am always dressed in my Sunday best, normally a skirt and a blouse, or a long dress. Clothes not meant to be played in, …
For issue 8, each editor selected their pieces based off of particular, meaningful themes. We’ve decided to publish these works as a folio in their specific genre so readers can feel how they interact and create a dialogue with each other. Get ready to read dangerously. Nonfiction: Body of Evidence Guest Editor: Karolyn Gehrig …
My stomach doesn’t discriminate. I’ve thrown up Dubra. I’ve thrown up Grey Goose.
I’ve thrown up while dressed as Abraham Lincoln.
I’ve thrown up with a pirate hat on and shamrocks on my cheeks.
According to my doctor, my stomach produces a lot of acid. My first AOL screen name was TumsRockMyWorld.
Dad always talked about America like everything there was bigger, like shit that happened there actually mattered. Mom laughed, called him a Yankee potato-eater, but I guess he wasn’t kidding after all.
It probably won’t sound like it, but this is a love story. It starts during Christmas in 1985 at Birchwood, a long-term inpatient institution for people with what was broadly termed mental health disorders.
You’ve told yourself that your emotions are a burden on your family, your friends, and later, your lovers. You worry about how everyone else feels in response to what lies in your heart and choose to ignore what hurts you. What you feel just isn’t worth talking about.
Daddy speaks with pride that I am the first lawyer in the family and with relief that I am not the drug-addicted lost soul of his fears.
1. The problem is all inside your head, others will say this.
2.But the problem lingers in your wrinkled bedsheets.