I went to the bathroom, locked the door, and turned on the hot water.
Newsletter Block
This newsletter signup form needs a storage option. Edit the block and enter a storage location via the Storage tab.
I went to the bathroom, locked the door, and turned on the hot water.
“I need to get out of the fucking city,” I complain, and ten minutes later you’ve booked a campsite.
The setting: A neighborhood softball game.
“Watch those lights off the coast,” my mom instructs.
We hear a thump in her bedroom. We’ve been here before.
My neighbor tells me about the fitness app that’s helped her lose nine pounds and her real estate showings . . .
I was crazy about Vicky, but at 13, I’d never asked a girl to go steady.
Green-fringed red curtains hang motionless in the sky and reflect in the lake, framed by purple and stars.
Two decades of agony for a single piece of printer paper, annotated and signed, ceremoniously declaring the basic facts of my body.
The hill on Alpine Road looked steeper than I remembered.
“We spoke to the alleged perpetrator,” she says.
It’s November. Blue sky. Or not. I don’t know.
The world is not fully on fire yet, so I am crying instead of sobbing over machine-dried, vacuum-sealed seeds of Philippine rice resting in Norway's Global Seed Vault.
“He’ll be here any minute. Give him five.”
In suburban Seattle, I watched a one-eyed cat endure the injustice of crows.
Students toss clay scraps into a fifty-five-gallon garbage drum filled with slurry water.
I watched the man prop up his phone and press record.
Grace is unmerited favor extended to those who do not deserve it.
“Ow!” I grabbed my cramping belly and slid to the kitchen floor.
A miasma of Axe body spray and teen condescension fills the space between us.