“My Dad took me out of kindergarten before the end of the semester, and we flew to Europe. We’re American, but 1961 was a good time for us to be out of the country. My father, C. Wright Mills—a sociologist and pioneering social critic—was embroiled in troubles, both political and personal.” —From . . .
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“To a woman with Alzheimer’s a dark red ruglooks like a hole in the floor—a bloody hole. She can’t open her front doorwithout stepping past it… —From “Irish Music,” Summer 2019 (Vol. 60, Issue 2) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.In sixth grade, I began working on a Nancy-Drew-style . . .
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“We’ve never read her a story without a happy ending.The divorced dad and his daughter make pizza. The rabbit loves chores.When I flipped my mom’s suburban on 290, all the windows broke.We climbed out of the passenger side, the cuts on our armsThe only injuries we got.” —From “Watching Sophia with my . . .
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Translated from Chinese by Walter Chan Chun Hay June 13, 2019 It was some minutes past five in the morning. The sky was turning bright and birds were relentlessly tweeting. Sparrows pecked around us. The bridge to the Central Government Complex has been blockaded by police and barriers, making it an island . . .
Read MoreYep. Though I probably should avoid mixed mammaliaphors, I do think I’ve belled that cat. Skunks have a certain well-earned reputation; it’s not one they earn by making friends. Few—at least outside their immediate families, which tend to be small—can stand to be around them for long. One wonders how they ever . . .
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When he you, you sat in the surf a day and night, let the lap of Caribbean obscure your thighs, let the minnows run their purple races across your thighs and finchestear red cords from your scalp… —From “Anne Bonny Marooned with Child,” Summer 2019 (Vol. 60, Issue 2) Tell us about one of . . .
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Extending “World Wide Welcome” Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,With conquering limbs astride from land to land;Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall standA mighty woman with a torch, whose flameIs the imprisoned lightning, and her nameMother of Exiles. From her beacon-handGlows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes commandThe air-bridged harbor . . .
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“Corporal Belknap’s eyes were gone, white cotton: he must have drunk twenty beers himself. Which explained why he was leaning against the Humvee like a bike without a kickstand, why Sullivan couldn’t deceipher his latest slurred monologue—a single word he kept repeating, something like hurt, or heart, or was it help? – From “Gasoline,” Summer 2019 . . .
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It’s been over a week since I first failed to sleep normally. My sleep has been shallow. I’ve tossed and turned in bed, awake and asleep. Or, at other times, I was simply an insomniac, almost never missing the first soft beam of sunlight shining through the curtain cracks. My insomnia suggested . . .
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The narrator of Call Me Zebra (CMZ) sees herself as part of what she calls the 0.1%, a tiny fraction of the population that engages with the world through literature. Would you say that this 0.1% is a privileged group?It depends on who is answering the question. Zebra, Oloomi the writer—or me, the other . . .
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