You get one or two good ideas of your own, and that’s it. That’s all you get to work with, and you can either beat your ass like some self-flagellating monk to make something with that idea, or you can leave it alone and keep on copying.
I stitched together my favorite childhood flannel sheets and some old towels to make my own sentimental reusable paper towels.
Get your laughs in, Midwesterners, but for eight-year-old Caitlin, Texas was paradise.
I awoke to our driver speaking in an urgent and concerned tone while tapping the horn.
We’re getting used to this: the shepherding of my distracted attention back into the air. Sitting off to the side and seeing my traffic go by.
Neighboring governments are refusing to accept these hungry, oppressed citizens, just for lacking a simple pamphlet made of dead trees and bureaucracy.
As the train and your pulse both speed up, something happens. In the middle of a step, between the time when your back foot leaves the ground and lands in front of the other, you seem to be weightless.
I love the city I now call home, but it’s never been my destination.
I’m a youth director who wakes up most mornings wondering if God is even real. I’m prone to weariness from the locational and spiritual uncertainty of my future.
From the kitchen comes the pitter-patter of the pressure cooker, rap tap tapping, hissing spurts of steam, signaling that something delectable will be on the table at the next meal—most likely black beans.
