Where There’s Smoke
No wonder my eyes sting when I go outside; the air’s full of tiny demonic scorpions.
Marmalade Feminism
Somewhere along the way, I have become a jam-making fiend.
Aunt Beth’s Irises
Every spring, the flowers unrobed themselves from their long green stalks, like indigo flags declaring the end of the winter—and their own ability to survive it.
In Which I Pretend to Design
Maybe scrapbooking is my true calling.
Market Memories
How did we find it? Where exactly did this core memory take place?
Where I’ll Be Buried
Our family has been talking a lot about tradition these days.
Predictions for the Vaderland, Pt 2: Mostly Nailed It
And, no great loss, I didn’t think about The Masked Singer once.
Remembering in the Moment
My problem comes with, for example, the teenage couple directly in front of me at an April show who filmed the entire thing, starting a new recording with each new song.
Call for Audition Submissions
Are you interested in joining the post calvin community? We have a few openings for new writers beginning this August, and we’d love for you to audition!
Dear Blue Ridge
Your springs have a mind of their own, yet they stay to their determined courses, following plans drawn up by gravity, grooves deepened by time.
