Mom bought the Algorithm Father in the hot middle of my analog summer.
Mom bought the Algorithm Father because she liked the idea of an extra set of hands, ...
I wish I could be a good writer, but being a mother makes that difficult. I wish that I could sit down every day at the same time and pump out a thousand words...
In the early morning night of January the car won’t turn over. Jim tries again, turning the key while pumping the gas pedal. Closer, still no luck. The c...
The hot desert wind picks up, blowing gusts of pollen through the motel window. I imagine a layer of Easter-egg-yellow dust on my naked back. The comforter is ...
After Leon died, Loretta sold most of the farm away. Away, in different ways. The back fields, nearly 300 acres, went to two neighboring farms, the Rathmueller...
Lately, there is a cottage industry booming for writing about writing, which was once considered a bit of a faux pas, a magician revealing his or her secrets. ...
My husband claims the thing that most “offends” him about my lover (“offends” is his word, versus something more predictable, like “upsets”) is that Adam’s fav...
Azadeh Fazli, age ten, youngest child of the Fazli family, announced at dinner one night that she was going to start saying ‘I love you’ as part of saying good...
I couldn’t say whether I killed him—or was it a her?— that cat in the rain-slick road, its coat reflecting silver in the headlights, its white eyes aglow at my...
In the morning, the nursing home residents are in a good mood. By evening, the act of living begins to take its toll.
I too have started going to bed at eig...
