Dear Madeleine

by Stephanie Vanderslice
I can tell you this now. Both times I was pregnant, I worried. I doubted my ability to raise a girl.

Love For Sale

by Benjamin Aleshire
I travel around the world and strangers pay me to write poems for them on a typewriter in the street—that’s how I’ve made my living for the last eight years.

Big Girls Like Us

by Kelly Flynn
Every time I see my father, he asks me if I have lost weight. He has done this since I was a child.

Heaven

by Mike O’Mary
“Put on your winter coat and get a warm blanket,” I told my daughter. “We’re going out to look at Christmas lights.”

The Flying Dutchman

by Annette Gendler
February 3, 1946. Rain pounded the railcar’s roof. Karl felt as if inside a drum. A stuffy drum, smelling of wet wool and unwashed bodies.

Grief, Furniture

by Beth Bilderback
This couch was made for grownups, vintage grownups of the 1930s, cinch-waisted female grownups and men who wore hats and drank martinis.

An Author’s Life

by Emile DeWeaver
Writers’ processes differ, but here’s my truth: Writing is hard and I hate it; revision is easy, and I want to take it to the movies, then get to third base.

My Own Struggle, Or An Exercise in Autofiction

by Isabella David McCaffrey
Autofiction is technically new, but now it’s been identified as a trend—like cat eyeliner then or wearing winter white. When the masses catch on, is it no longer cool?