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
Tag: Creative Nonfiction
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
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
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Every time he left, I would feel all of my muscles shake out of a tense grip, as if I’d been holding on to the
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.
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.