B.G. Gaylord In August of 2010, three months after my father died, my mother brought me a plastic grocery bag full of my dead father’s socks. She said Dad was proud of the socks and would want me to have them. Apparently, he’d found them at Rural King for a good price and stocked up. … Continue reading The Beast in His Belly
Jane Marcellus My shoes are wrong. Mother brings it up in the rental car after she and Joanna pick me up at the airport and we are heading onto I-40 to go to the funeral home. We are late. I was supposed to get here last night but there was a fluke spring snowstorm in … Continue reading My Father’s Tooth
Here’s a little taste of Richard Froude’s winning essay, “Things To Do In Denver When You’re Dead.” “The truth is I have not been sleeping well. My wife and I are expecting our first child in three month’s time. For the first fifteen weeks I was convinced that both she and the baby were going … Continue reading Wabash Prize for Nonfiction 2013 Sneak Peek!
BY AMY HOLWERDA When the doctor told me, days after I had been spread eagle in his stirrups feeling him scrape, scrape, scrape inside me, that it was the early stages of cancer, he was full of questions. “Does cancer run in your family?” “Yes, I think so,” I said, telling him about Grandpa. “I … Continue reading Family History (an excerpt)
BY LISA LEE I stopped writing to my pen pal, Mary Wang, of Anchorage, Alaska, the year I started high school. Partly because my mother told me she was too ugly for me to be friends with, but mostly because I was terrified of being ugly myself. Beginning from when I was ten years old … Continue reading Dear Mary Wang (an essay excerpt)
BY CHARLES WAUGH Two Vietnamese girls, maybe 7 and 10, on a well-lit Hoi An sidewalk after dark, wearing tee shirts, shorts, and flip-flops, stood frozen, their hands dangling uselessly, their mouths open. In the middle of the street, one of the ubiquitous mid-sized Vietnamese dogs, muscular and square headed, was rapping the death snap … Continue reading AMERICAN AGAIN IN MY LAI (an excerpt)
BY REBECCA EPSTEIN The house where I grow up is an expansive split-level with slippery wooden staircases and rooms that seem too large and too chilly. The house is built on what was once the inner slope of a ravine, now a steep street that winds back and forth and downwards in the same places … Continue reading THE FUN RIDE