Tag: Creative Nonfiction

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

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