Category: Prose
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Painting
It was the divine. He knew none of it made sense. Really, he hated it. But here and now, it was fucking gorgeous.
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Coffee Routine
My teammates’ hands reach for a touch, their fingers wiggling like sea anemones in my periphery. In the car ride home, my father teaches me the word charisma. Creative Nonfiction by Susannah Borysthen-Tkacz
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Mona Lisa in Bronze
Where had he found rum? I took a sip. It was strong but sweet. Warm from his hands. “In Cuba we have a saying,” he said, “when you drink from my cup, you learn my secrets.” Creative Nonfiction by Dacia Price
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Assisted Living
I couldn’t help believing my mom was dragging me down. I felt like a bad person, thinking a thing like that, but I’d spent the last year bringing her clean underwear in psych wards and convalescent hospitals. She was still young, everyone said. And physically fine. But she wanted to die. It had become my…
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Traumatic Detour
Sometimes, during a lull between murders, I realize we’re due for another. Often, within a day or two of me realizing this, something dreadful occurs: a mass shooting; a bombing; a knifing rampage; a truck accelerating along the sidewalk. When this happens, I feel instantaneous remorse, as if I should have tweeted a warning: “Don’t…
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Elysian Fields
I wake in morning light on my back-porch cot, glad to figure I’ve found my way back in the night, thanking Providence and Zeus and whoever else. In the night I must’ve dreamed about Helen, the older sister of Parke Wright and the only woman I’ve ever truly loved. I’ve got her song on my…