I didn’t know many people who had gone to university. Neither Dad, nor Mom, nor my grandparents went. Still I knew more or less how university types dressed and even how they spoke, partly because my cousin was a veterinary student (though I barely saw him, and until he finally graduated, I . . .
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They came to meet him at the tiny airport in the town where he had attended medical college. As he went from his new house in Texas to the airport to New York and then London and Delhi, he had the sensation that the world was growing bigger and bigger. But on . . .
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We knew our answers, but they weren’t what you were looking for: What do you want to be when you grow up? Not married.A man with stronger arms than mine.A person with the courage to bite down.An evil queen.A horse.—from “Please Don’t Ask Us,” Volume 63, Issue 1 (Spring 2022) Tell us . . .
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Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, late September 2002. A beautiful fall morning. What was once called an Indian summer, but Jacob is learning to expunge such phrases from his lexicon: Indian summer. Dutch treat, French kiss. Is French kiss okay? Not that it matters; he hasn’t French kissed a guy in months.—from “Simple Past . . .
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The day I arrived on the butter schooner a cow had fallen off the cliff. Its carcass was found on the beach in the cove below, near the high tide line, by some men waiting to load the hogs and butter onto the boat for the return trip to San Francisco. Everyone . . .
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It is easy to believe there are no flowersgrowing in the folds of sand stretching before us.Night has erased them. And the Blue Moondoes little to illuminate anything but the sand:—from “Blue Moon,” Volume 63, Issue 1 (Spring 2022) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.One of the first . . .
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My name is DeDe and I’m eleven years old. D-e, capital D-e. It’s not short for anything. My dad’s name is Bobby and that’s not short for anything either. Our names are similar, both made of two of the same consonant sounds. BO-Bby. DE-De.—from “Cockroach,” Volume 63, Issue 1 (Spring 2022) Tell . . .
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Some people speak of living through a climate crisis. Others simply go about their business as if nothing is happening. Both groups of people have more in common than they would let on, and the climate crisis might well inspire either to tell stories about events they would prefer to never experience . . .
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In one chemical future, the clouds themselves will be extinct, so we try to hold them in mind as they float by casting their individual storm-sized shadows across the animals across the plains.—from “Glacier Haibun,” Volume 62, Issue 4 (Winter 2021) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.I started . . .
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Abuela doesn’t want to die. She’s still holding on to life for the stubbornness of it. And on one of the worst days to head down the mountainside, Ma and Pa decided to drag Diego and me to see her.—from “A Death Foretold,” Volume 62, Issue 4 (Winter 2021) Tell us about . . .
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