Essays & Fiction


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River Teeth—"Tick, Days Three Through Thirty"

In the new forests of the apocalypse, we will shave all our hair so ticks have nowhere to hide.

Nonfiction. Read more.

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WEst branch—"Milk-white cabbage"

There can’t be a cellar when the house is on chicken legs, but that’s where milady keeps the sour-cabbages. It’s just a trapdoor in the kitchen, and an iron ring for lifting. Someone carved a matching circle into the wood of the trapdoor so the ring nestles in and lies flush. The wood was wearing and wearing, though, as I passed over it, fetching and grinding and scrubbing for milady. She is so hungry.

Fiction. Read more.

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gay magazine—"Thy dross to consume"

Frigid and loose. Harlot and mother. In the a capella Mennonite Church where I was raised, we had a third important dichotomy for the classification of women: soprano and alto.

Nonfiction. Full text here.

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oregon home—"prince of my long nights"

My Prince was a beautiful stove, glossy cream and turquoise enamel, with warming shelves, a firebox on the left and a hot-water reservoir curling up wing-like on the right. I have a Prince to keep me warm at night, I wrote to lovers back home. I warned you I’d never be the needy one, is what I wanted them to read.

Nonfiction. Full text here.

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Tahoma literary review—"West Fork tack & saddle co."

I twist Carla’s hand over her head to set her spinning, skirt firing every direction until slam! we’re right back home for the next eight-count. Right-left grand. The folks my parents’ age get the most bothered when I dance gent. The old old folks only care that I get it right, that I know how to lead.

Fiction. Read more.

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salt hill—"haycliff"

Someone has to start spelling pizza phonetically. I’ve begun with my stuffed puppy from the Wal-Mart grand opening. Peetsa fit right inside my elbow and I named him in the parking lot, phonetic. That makes me Peetsa’s Mother. I told my sister who is Sugarplum’s Mother that she should spell it like Shuggerplum, but she doesn't spell anything yet.

Nonfiction. Read more.

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fourth genre—"firewood"

We moved here so Papa could build the ski resort but that was done a long time ago, and then he spent a year fixing bridges and foundations after the flood. There’s not so much to do anymore. Last week another tractor trailer went off the mountain, so he had a job rescuing the stuff on it. Then he went hunting.

Nonfiction. Read more.