We planted the flower beds next to our front door with weeds—a small act of aggression, perhaps. Milkweed and Joe Pye Weed, host plants to several kinds of butterflies, flourished there.
by Paulette Kamenecka
I came to think of myself as a traveler who’d picked up a pack of diseases through miscalculation or poor judgment—drinking the water in a place I shouldn’t have.
I sat with the note in my lap, stunned and glad to be alone in the kitchen. The laundry gave me something to do with my hands while I settled my mind.
by Lisa Peet
I craved—I still crave—transcendence, some kind of transformation to click through the plodding circuits in my brain and fire them up again, one by one, turning the lights back on.
By Martha Anne Toll
“It came in a sudden gust, the thought that I could give it all up, throw everything overboard, ditch the career in social justice that I truly loved and that was close to forty years in the making, and do what had been calling me for decades: write full time.”
by Martha Anne Toll
Despite vast differences in wealth, status, ancestry, time, and setting, the eight-year-old girl in John Singer Sargent’s The Daughters of Edward Darley Boit haunts me. Why?
by Joe Schuster
“Maybe all stories are really about secrets and revelations” – K. L. Cook