- By Edward Clifford
The baby encased in a thin membrane is something like a cross between a basketball and a cantaloupe. It lies at the woman's feet on the bed. Her skin prickles at the sight of the living being moving inside. It is not trapped in her anymore; it is a separate being, helpless and suffocating. She presses the heel of her foot into the shape with a sense of caution against crushing the thing inside. She feels an urgent need to release it.
—from "What Our Bodies Cannot Hold," from Volume 62, Issue 1 (Spring 2021)
Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.
The first piece I ever wrote was titled, “Mrs. Hamilton.” I was ten years old, and Mrs. Hamilton was a 97-year-old woman that lived across the street. I liked...