Existing. That was what the weeks after the funeral felt like—a string of continual stresses from the mountain of immediate family responsibilities, punctuated with pangs of overwhelming sadness, and then those sudden — surprising — interruptions, moments of hope. Also, a lot of logistics. Every morning I asked myself what
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Rule #1: The venue sets the tone for everything that happens next. The Sugar Factory on Ocean Drive has become the rendezvous spot for these clandestine meetings with Sydney. They chose it
Nobody expected butterflies. Dense flocks appeared along the Atlantic Seaboard that August, radial bands stretching from Cape Canaveral to Mount Desert Island. Eyewitnesses snarled the phones at natural resource departments claiming aerial
Ashley Dailey (she/her) is a writer and multimedia artist from Sargent, Georgia. She mostly writes about family and the cultural legacies of the American South. Her work has received support from the
The bell clangs. “I’m coming,” Henry Klackum calls from behind the backroom’s curtain. He sets down the amber bottle and the brush dewed with paste. On the wide, pine table sit twelve
for thirty- seven minutes i watched the day break blue across steelyards yesteryear forgot while recounting the names of my ex-girlfriend’s siblings. i imagine this to be the kind of forgiveness a
What are your plans for Mother’s Day? Your question tightens my belly, squeezes my chest, constricts my throat. Your question leaves me gasping for words. Can you tell? When you ask it?
Night Six, my mother invites me to help with dinner. From the fridge she pulls tofu and scallops and shrimp without tails. I search the cabinets for almond milk, ask what about
Placenta, you scared me. There you were, bulging and bright, right in front of me under the stare of the cold hospital room. You came shortly after an on-call male doctor in
will you understand my heartsif i write1’s & 0’si do not know what you look like,but i wash my face in the mirror,& fail to imagine something more humanhow much money did
Umma had me believe that foreigners pay an extra price for faith. In the church we attended as I was growing up, to pray meant to know where we belonged and to