Four days ago, I bought melons—one, a cantaloupe. A normal melon. Thick skin hard, dappled beige and grey. Once I spied a woman in ..read more

A Written-In-Five-Minutes Flash Prose; A Protagonist Stuck in A Moment I always take forever to get ready. I force the itchy fabric of tulle and cotton down my body as I slither into it, making sure my “bits fit right”.    At twelve years old, I don’t think I’d have any “bits'' to speak of, yet my mother echoing to me from downstairs, with her shapewear and diet soda, protein milkshakes and cigarettes, instills within in that even as a pre-teen, I must be small enough or else “I’d never make it.”   The mirror, standing proudly, an arching mouth laughing at me, I can’t seem to e ..read more

into her hair thick white library paste smeared into her face daddy long-legs shaken into her fist snot-coated tissues shoved and her skirt splattered with Kool-Aid the cherry kind blood-colored so hard to wash out even after soaking for decades in shame memories that smell like garbage uncollected after half a century what can this poem— any poem— cleanse? Margaret D. Stetz is the Mae and Robert Carter Professor of Women's Studies at the University of Delaware, as well as a widely published poet ..read more

The first time you almost died, you were barely two years old. I was supposed to be taking care of you, but I had crept into the kitchen to sneak some bites of ube ice cream. I was stuffing my mouth, my cheeks frozen and my lips already stained purple, when I heard a crash. There was a moment of silence your scream fractured. Something was wrong. This wasn’t an “I’m hungry,” or “Pay attention to me,” scream; this was an “I’m scared” scream.   Tatay was napping in the living room. He jolted awake and ran past me as I swallowed as fast as I could and followed him.   There was so much b ..read more

Once my mother told me she wasn’t my mother, not really. “Oh,” she said, “I gave birth to you, but –” and here she waved her hand vaguely, the smoke from her cigarette forming a lazy s before dissolving in the air, “mothering. You know. It never really was my thing.”             She was drunk when she said this, of course. But she was right. She’s drunk again, or still drunk – it’s getting hard to tell. She passed out on the couch tonight. One shoe hangs precariously off her foot, and her short skirt is hiked up over her thighs. Her face ..read more

The time will pass anyways. You might as well enjoy it. You have to keep going. This is your choice, but wake up and choose it every morning. If you can’t do it for you, do it for her—the little girl with shirley-temple curls and a squinting smile and hands full of paint and a heart full of love. You have to let yourself be sad for the things you miss and mourn. Just don’t stay sad. Don’t let the sadness devour you whole while you sit in the bottom of its big whale belly. Lay with your grief and hold its hand. Learn to let go and get back up again. Mother yourself: make your bed. Make some ..read more

This is the winning selection from the 2024 Spring Fiction & Nonfiction Contest. For more information about our upcoming contests, please see the Submissions page. Before my ex was my ex, we two sat in silence at our kitchen table in Papakōlea, the varnish oranged by a blazing, stubborn sun as it inched its way down a bruised blue sky. Through the cross-hatched window, the frail leaves of the avocado tree next door attempted to shield us, but their measly, brown edges were crisp from summer scorch, and the tree had suddenly gone barren; the fruit disappeared earlier that month. The branch ..read more

This is the winning selection from the 2024 Spring Fiction & Nonfiction Contest. For more information about our upcoming contests, please see the Submissions page. Before my ex was my ex, we two sat in silence at our kitchen table in Papakōlea, the varnish oranged by a blazing, stubborn sun as it inched its way down a bruised blue sky. Through the cross-hatched window, the frail leaves of the avocado tree next door attempted to shield us, but their measly, brown edges were crisp from summer scorch, and the tree had suddenly gone barren; the fruit disappeared earlier that month. The branch ..read more

The engines. The buses. The bustle. A December Monday with students eager to be released. Above, snowflakes eager to erupt. Like candy in a piñata belly. Like bad news on the tip of a tongue. Like the crackling of a school loudspeaker when your principal announces your best friend is dead.   When you are stunned. Vision blackening. Breathing belabored. When the floor caves in and there is nowhere but the Blackbox Theatre. Where a choir teacher and theatre director stand, staring at their outstretched palms. Wondering if they shrunk or if the world grew too heavy. Behind them, the classroo ..read more

I take a sip of bright pink, speckled with seeds, it’s sweet taste prickling against my tongue, and I am reminded of our freckled noses. How they both drip in the cold, How they both peel in the sun.   A sticky strawberry lodges itself into the straw, a fresh red, like the blood of your knee the time I pushed you off the swing. Me, insisting you shake it off Me, pleading to not tell mom.   A splash escapes my cup and my white jeans blush as deeply as my cheeks the time you expelled your breakfast all over my frilly skirt You received whispered tones of sympathy while I had sour eyes ..read more