Prose, Poetry, and Art since 1956
Twelve and my breasts begin their slow swell, moon-bright in the seventh month of my slumber. This strange sheen, as within the begonia’s waxy heart, my neck spreading its blush when, in front of my crush, the boy from Glasgow County, B snaps my training bra and runs away, laughing. In Home-Ec two years later, while the class learns how to use measuring cups, D…
I always wanted to be a weatherwoman. It was a simple and steady flight inside of me that encountered little turbulence. I liked being at the center of something so fundamental, something that affected everyone, and was thought about—however briefly—by everyone. Particularly dramatic weather can unite an entire region of the country, reminding us of our vulnerability, how much we need each other. I’ve never…
There is probably something distinctly strange about the era that we live in, and Benjamin Kessler knows this. In Of This World, Kessler’s new, debut collection of short stories, reality (as we have come to know it) plays out with the specter of fantasy trailing closely behind. Characters come and go, but one thing remains the same throughout: they live in a version of our…
Where I live, abandoned buildings lean precariously towards roads carved by oxen the first time they sloughed this forest to the ground. The only road to my home is held in place by roots of dead trees, with a drop so sharp that you are looking at the middle of redwoods while you drive. Neighborless houses have become markers of our town, which is not…
To cleanse a home of bad smells, those old burn pits from decades ago; bring to the earth and our hands large gusts of rich white billows; welcome guests, let it travel through their hair and fingers as we pass around the burner small waves of heat on our skin; expelling bad spirits on Friday mornings as my mother in a prayer garment carries the…