CREATIVE NONFICTION
Abbreviated / Not Manager Material by Paul Crenshaw
Abbreviated Since entering middle age, I sometimes fear my time is running short. I could use the word “manopause” to explain the changes men face at my age, but I need to save time so I just say…
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Refrigerator Elegy by Lindsey Harding
Do all things expire? you ask on trash night, and I shake my head, shake two-week-old pasta into the sink, shepherd it down the drain. No, surely no. And later—the refrigerator cleaned out, its shelves crumbless at last, so…
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Losing Composure by A.D. Carr
Poioumenon for my son “Can I ask you a personal question?” I asked. “About kids?” It was early 2017. I was in the passenger seat and my friend, G., was driving. She’d been my lit professor back when I…
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Dois Irmãos by Hannah Storm
There’s a hill in Rio that overlooks the water, named for the fact it has two peaks. You describe it to me, but I don’t catch its name as you take my breasts in your hands, nuzzle my neck…
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The Marys by Nuala O’Connor
I go to the church on the town square and light a candle to Our Lady of Clonfert, our local Holy Mary. It is a flame of gratitude. I asked and I received. It is the warmest day of…
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Into that dark permanence of ancient forms by Aileen Hunt
I. It’s getting late when we turn into the car park—newly constructed to accommodate the endless tour buses that otherwise clog the country roads. But the late hour has worked to our advantage. The car park is empty; the…
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Pearl, Upward by Patricia Smith
Chicago. Say it. Push out the three sighs, don’t let such a huge wish languish. Her world, so big she didn’t know its edges, suddenly not enough. She’s heard the dreams out loud, the tales of where money flows,…
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Because, the Ferguson Verdict by Ira Sukrungruang
Because, in 1978, we were the first Thai family in a working class neighborhood of Chicago, predominantly inhabited by Polish and Irish. Because we found our mailbox off its post every weekend, the aluminum dented in the shape of…
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First by Ryan Van Meter
Ben and I are sitting side by side in the very back of his mother’s station wagon. We face glowing white headlights of cars following us, our sneakers pressed against the back hatch door. This is our joy—his and…
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Girls, Monsters by Jaquira Díaz
When we were twelve, we taught ourselves to fly. —John Murillo, from “Renegades of Funk” All of us girls, now women. —T Kira Madden, from “The Feels of Love” That winter, we watched New York Undercover on group phone calls,…
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