“Sometimes laughing feels like crying.” A frozen bag of fish can make or break this marriage, in Mick Stratta’s “Cod Provençal.”
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You think I want to be here?
Listen, I was young like you once, too.
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I know it is strange, perhaps even unheard of, for an old woman like me to do this. Fingers will be pointed and tongues will be wagged till they nearly ...
Is history destiny that a fortune-teller can predict, or is it the spin of a gameshow’s wheel?
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Now I’ve been thinking about this recently, how I’ve always thought it was a funny story, an anecdote of a drunk girl’s cynicism, or proof that women could enjoy anonymous, ...
I looked out the taxi window at the pouring rain. Monsoon season was never fun. We always came to India in the winter so as to avoid the scorching summer ...
Beth’s not crazy. She knows that never works, too pleading. But she’s not. When the bipolar diagnosis came raining down….
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It’s like she’s flirting, and because of that you don’t mind that she has taken your towel. But when your final breathing exercise is done and you crawl over to ...
The paragraph was squeezed between an article titled “How to Prepare Your Home for Thanksgiving” and an article about seasonal depression.
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I am learning it’s okay for me to be ever changing, everlasting, evermoving. Movement is good, it keeps the flow of the blood, the beat of the heart.
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What am I willing to give up for creature comforts and basic preservation? After living in Abu Dhabi for five years, I know the answer to this question. And it’s ...
Harold pressed wrinkled soles against cool concrete and rocked in rhythm with the monster’s growls, glimpsing unnatural colours between dark trunks. Flashes of vibrant letters spray-painted on stacked carts. Insistent ...
Dave and Paula found Marcus’ body washed up in a bed of Phragmites along the river the next morning, not far down from the Chester River bridge.
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It’s knife-wielding season in Little Havana. Last week a tremoring, teenage ladrón stripped Manny of his gold link bracelet outside the Pollo Tropical.
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I got my bucket of wine and inebriated myself to the point that my head no longer pounded in pain. No, far from it, it buzzed like a lost airplane.
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I am the woman who cannot travel backwards on a train.
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Not everyone could see it – someone passing on the street wouldn’t notice – but she could.
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I suddenly want to hold you, or hit you. I stare at your face trying to commit every line to memory.
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