Category: Nonfiction

An Ode to Breakfast, Emma Lassiter   I was scared, that day. The last time I had been scared in that house was when I was seven, and my big sister and I were sleeping over; but a thunderstorm woke me up, and the ensuing hysterics summoned my parents to fetch me at one in the…

Poppies and WD-40, Chloe Moulin Morning consists of showering the body, donning the clothing, assembling the self. I wrestle into a tee shirt, and oftentimes a collared shirt atop it, a sweater, a jacket. I like things that cover my neck. I like things that have weight, like a quarter-zip or pants that hug a little…

Immersed, Abigail Nasari “The people or countries that seem to have the highest happiness index seem to embrace the chaos of being human, meaning they don’t pretend that life is anything other than chaotic and random.” -Andrew French BestFriend is taking AP Chemistry. We sit by the bathrooms after school in the sad excuse of…

Precious, Rose Horell   No one stays in Calcutta, India forever. Scan the headlines of the nearest copy of Calcutta Times or The Telegraph and you’ll almost certainly find an op-ed lamenting the brain drain. The education minister’s desperation is palpable in the title: “Why are our kids leaving?” His words are probably next to the…

Rose-Covered Glasses, Margaret Wright   I know her like she’s mine. Little sister, little child, little rhyme. We float in the gray-between; one of my hands holds her as a sister while the other tucks her to sleep, maternal lullabies and gentle touch. She doesn’t always know how to define me. I don’t either.  I know…

Precious, Rose Horell TW: Child Abuse I. “Do you think I’d look good as a blonde?” I ask my sister Cassandria as we sit in parallel spa chairs at Grace’s Nail Salon. Toes tied in tissue to prevent us from smudging our freshly painted nails, we twist our upper bodies to face one another while staying…

Behaviorism, Arjun Saatia     TW: Domestic Violence, Drug Abuse     I loved when my father explained his tattoos to me. I’d stare wide-eyed and mystified at  the letters scrawling across his skin, the images of little ink men battling one another on my  father’s forearms. With all the sleeves cut off his t-shirts, I…

“junior year prom, mom had to unzip my dress because i was having a panic attack and couldn’t breathe”, Evelyn Staats TW: Eating Disorder The women of Mitski’s songs are dirty. Their rooms are a mess. Their bodies run lawless. And they try, obsessively, to wash themselves clean. Her lyrics are consumed with this character:…

Skyhopping, Alessia Potovsky Something about the hissing of the onions, scallions, garlic, and country pepper no – scotch bonnet, it’s scotch bonnet pepper here. Something about the hissing of the onions, scallions, garlic, and scotch bonnet pepper in the pot on the stove serve as white noise. Remember, they say skillet, not pot. The sizzling has…

Forbidden, Meghan Bauman I had this dream once that felt like it had been stripped from an indie Halloween movie: exposed brick walls, threadbare fear scattered across the floor like breadcrumbs, a ghostly presence unfolding in rattling noises and too-cold indoor breezes. I often vividly remember dreams, but most of this one fell away when I…

Opulent, Taharah Islam Step 1. Massage product into scalp and rinse thoroughly. Recall what she taught you about the Roman funeral: how it was the only time in antiquity that a woman would wear her hair down. How she would stand before the pyre and beat her chest, strands sticking to her sweaty shoulders, smoke stinging…

Rose-Covered Glasses, Margaret Wright      My Grandmother’s diary entry for September 8, 1943 reads:     “Italy surrendered. Permed my hair.”      Growing up, I spent most of my time with her, our houses only seventeen steps apart. I’d lay on the floor looking out of her picture window and she’d teach me which birds you wanted at your…

Poppies and WD-40, Chloe Moulin I remember when Julia and I hopped a wall by the river to recreate her parents’ wedding day. The only thing between us and that convent courtyard was a three-foot stone wall with spike-wired bars. We were bored and sad and talking about the moments we remember, even if they didn’t…

The Complexity of Detail, Olivia Offutt I found the tense of life in my college French 102 class that I  took because everyone I knew was in Spanish and French is  the language of Voltaire, West Africa, and pretension.   “le sobjonctif” my Russian French teacher would say, is not a  tense but a mood. Other…

Immersed, Abigail Nasari Mami… todos son gringos. You arrive. Take in the brick buildings decorated by fresh-cut grass and towering trees before you take in how much heavier your skin feels here. You will learn what it feels like to be the only drop of color in the pale canvas of your classroom, and the…