Butterfingers are Revolutionary | by Athena Dixon

by Athena Dixon

Over the years I chastised myself for being naïve, for inviting him to stay the weekend. That second guessing is what stopped me from telling anyone and stopped me from reporting it to the campus police. I couldn’t be convinced I wouldn’t be blamed. And I think part of me was concerned the carefully constructed woman I was becoming would be undone.

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The First Time I Died by Brittany Kerfoot

Brittany Kerfoot

The first time I died, I felt fireworks shoot down my legs and I could taste their colors: red like your heart before it stopped and turned gray, golden green like your eyes. My chest was heavy and my head was light; my eyes were swollen like a prize fighter’s.

I touched you and repeated I’m sorry, I love you, I’m sorry.

When you saw me, you raised …

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A Flash Essay by Traci Cox

Traci Cox




I hate that word.


Do you say it in two syllables, or three?

[My Arkansas friend says it in three. Suh-muh-dge.]

So many consonants, all piled up; clutter. Rolling around. Alphabet soup.

Taste dirt. Taste sad. Taste. Taste—




“Pinched like a pear,” my mom would say. Mouth closed, a little pucker, sweet sour smooth. But not a kiss; not a real kiss. It was bad, …

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My Exploded Ovary, Myself: Why I Wouldn’t Get a Hysterectomy at 20

by D.L. Podlesni

I choose to live in pain. Let me tell you why.

Flannery O’Connor once said sickness was a place, as real and enlightening as a long trip to Europe. If sickness is a country, I am a wellness ex-pat. Sickness has rules, codes, mores. I know most of them. For instance, I know to really ham it up in the recovery room after surgery, …

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