Six flimsy boxes, ten McNuggets each, and hot fries?
Six flimsy boxes, ten McNuggets each, and hot fries?
In the vending machine’s glare, I weighed my options.
I watched holes bloom on the target, nowhere near where I aimed.
This time, someone emails to subpoena records of my supposed coworker.
The phone rings once before her slender fingers cradle the receiver.
“It’s time.” I know exactly what Dad means and jump up, abandoning my dolls.
I am nineteen and newly arrived in Manhattan to become a writer.
My mother’s eyes open as I enter the room with Dunkin’ coffee, a blueberry cake donut, and two daisies.
At the theme park, the skies broke open.
The therapist holds back tears as I describe the summer my anorexia started.
I arrive at the café’s toilet door exactly at the same moment as the lady who had smiled at me earlier.
Ignoring shouts, I scroll his profile for conversation starters.
We’re free, free, free, with overgrown feathered bangs, hand-me-down tees on matchstick frames, sucking down raspberry Slurpees on steaming sidewalks . . .
what i actually am is foster-turned-adoptive parent.
The babies sit aligned in rows.
Saturday, September 7, 1968, 8:55, five minutes to my blind date.
When my first husband was bed-bound and nearing his last days, I made him a sweetened buttermilk cream dessert.
We sat on the balcony, my parents and I.
We had all become such fast friends.
She can't find the credit cards she hid in our house from would-be thieves when we went away.