Don’t Laugh by Val Bramble
Sometimes Mrs. Bowman rode the school bus to her jobs. She’d be waiting on the road with her children—her daughter, Suzette, and son, Buddy—both of whom I knew to be in High Levels of reading and math, as were…
Sometimes Mrs. Bowman rode the school bus to her jobs. She’d be waiting on the road with her children—her daughter, Suzette, and son, Buddy—both of whom I knew to be in High Levels of reading and math, as were…
My first time in Miami is tiny cups of sweet Cuban cortadito; and going to the Miami Open with my husband to join the crowds cheering for Carlos “Carlitos” Alcaraz, the Spanish teenage sensation and World #1; and rainy…
Essay by Rachel León • I met Nora Decter over Zoom when we were tasked to outline her forthcoming novel, What’s Not Mine. We were both fellows in Stony Brook University’s BookEnds program, paired to work together on our…
Snap Not when your mother makes you go to the dance. You tell her you’re sick. Really sick this time. See? You’ve broken out in hives. Not when she slathers you in calamine lotion & stuffs you into tights…
When Ford made love to Calla, she felt something in him fight. It wasn’t against her ugliness. That matter was settled business, though Calla, in her youth, had held onto the idea that she was a winter-apple sort of…
We arrive in the raspberry fields when it’s dark. It’s dark when we pile out of our secondhand pickup. My father, my mother. My brother and me. It’s dark when we start walking the rutted, sopping dirt road that…
BAŅUTA RUBESS pioneered feminist theatre and contemporary opera to national renown in Canada and Latvia. She has lived in four countries and writes in two languages. She has written plays, libretti, radio drama, television biopics, stories, and…
It’s all a blur. It can be separated into two five-year periods: using alone and using with Haley. Haley had piercings everywhere: the bridge of her nose, her septum, her nipples, her belly button. She had stretched lobes—one had…
Indiana, in our cold one-car garage, motes of dust falling sideways, the sunlight diffused by the snow covering the ground outside, and we watched Apá working the punching bag, his untaped fists flashing with each swing. Behind my brother…
Content Warning—miscarriage I see my anesthesiologist at the movies and it surprises me in the way that seeing someone outside the setting you know them does. There is a prick of recognition and then my mind scrambles to…
The weather in Southern California was gray the week the image for this essay came to me. The overcast days, which are part of our “winter,” provided the sense memory of the weather on the day I saw the anesthesiologist outside of the movies. The theater had been in the news recently. It had closed during the pandemic and several residents fought to keep it open. Now, it was reopening with a new owner and I had told myself I would go. When I put the theater and the weather together in my head, the image of my anesthesiologist became vivid.
I also wanted to tell this story of a miscarriage, because people sometimes downplay how traumatic they can be, but I didn’t want to drag the reader down with gobs of harrowing and self-pitying detail. Instead, I had the anesthesiologist, a weird kind of confluence of events, to help me. I think the anesthesiologist enabled me to crystalize the loneliness of this experience. And the barren landscape of Vasquez Rocks helped echo the emptiness that followed.
For several decades, I studied fiction with the incomparable Jim Krusoe, who encouraged us to start stories with the strange moments that leave you scratching your head as a way in. He also encouraged the use of close third person (even though I use first person in my piece), as a way of further destabilizing the reader and deepening a story. I’ve transferred these lessons to nonfiction and they have been invaluable for me. With this last disclosure, I feel like a magician who has just given away most of her tricks, but so be it. They were given to me, and now you may try them.
CYNTHIA ADAM PROCHASKA was born only hours after her mother, a poet, attended a Great Books meeting. Cynthia’s work has appeared in Santa Monica Review, The Florida Review, and the Los Angeles Times. Her stories are also anthologized in LA Fiction Anthology: Southland Stories by Southland Writers and Literary Pasadena. For many years, she was a professor of English at Mount San Antonio College. Despite her occasional misgivings, she is working on a memoir. Find her on Instagram at @cynthiaprochacha.