Tag: Creative Nonfiction

My Mother in the Big City of Paranoids

My mother had a habit of calling early in the morning. The earlier the better. The phone would ring and every time I’d answer, I’d


I was always braver at night—the middle of the night, like two or three o’clock, but fraught with the anxiety that the alarm would buzz

I Am Not a Warrior

I balance the prefilled syringe on my bathroom counter and rub the spot of my soft lower abdomen with an alcohol wipe. I pinch myself

Bradford Pear

I wake up to the voice of a stranger in our yard. Through the window, I see an older man inspecting our fifteen-year-old shriveled, diseased

I’m Not Outraged, But If I Were…

I was in the produce section of the Centreville Harris Teeter when a man in a stained white tank top came up to my boyfriend

The Identity that Immigration Built

We are pleased to announce that the So to Speak Blog’s Immigration Limited Series is now open for submissions. Please read our submission guidelines and submit

Under My Bed

If people always knew when intruders had broken into their homes, no one would ever die this way. I grab a chef’s knife, the knife that slices through raw chicken, bone and flesh, and return to the living room where the moth persists at the lamp. There’s only one way to be sure. I’ll have to check.

The Great Depression

Perhaps because of the housing boom and bust of the early 21st century, American society is now more aware of the “near poor” or people who are just getting by. But when I was a teenager, normal-looking actually meant “just like everyone else.” No one knew I was hungry and poor.