A new kind of literary pulse

August brought with it a new easy-swallow scheme by a new self-improvement mentor. Luna Rojas had measured out her life with the likes of them – detoxes, spiritual awakenings, fad diets. She... [+]

I remember when my world divided into male and female, when the girls screamed “Shaun has cooties!” across the playground and flushed with what I thought was anger. I remember being in a... [+]

Emma pads through the living room, over the thick, ivory carpet, and settles on the chaise longue with her wineglass. As she tastes the cold white wine, her gaze falls to the fields on the valley... [+]

Aunt Mila was the one collecting the eggs every morning but the chore is now mine. We have an extra daily egg since she has flown off and Grandma uses them to bake a cake every other day. Grandpa... [+]

It was one of those thunderstorms came on sudden-like. Before a body could cover its head it had passed on someplace else. Here, in our holler, we were used to such storms. We liked the surprise of... [+]

The stoplight on the corner had been broken for weeks. Westway Avenue was yellow and green at the same time, while Cherry Lane was forever red. Mabel knew this. Mom and Dad called it “the... [+]

It’s a sunny Sunday afternoon —celebratory day: the sun hadn’t visited your city’s sky in ages— and you’re out in the flea market. Browsing the offerings among the throng of people: old... [+]

The last time I saw my father he was wearing a toupee that looked like a year’s worth of dryer lint, a worn-out Carolina t-shirt, the blue almost white now, green golfing shorts, and penny loafers... [+]

For Amy
Emilio’s mother was long-practiced in the art of summoning a saint. For a burn, she’d appeal to the apostle John. It was John who got the call twice a day for a year when Emilio... [+]

The old man is watching a seagull eviscerating a crab. The decapod crustacean probably was handsome in his youth but not any longer. Does he wish he could scream? Or is it better to be stoic and... [+]

Mamma always had a love for other people's possessions.
One of my earliest memories is walking to the park, my hand firmly tucked into hers. I was an impulsive child, and likely would have darted... [+]

My new neighbor was a hoarder. She hoarded everything. Crystals, pink bakery boxes—she even took in children. Each one was flawed: too restless, not bright enough, a daisy-shaped head. The sound... [+]