by Alan SwyerThanks to a combination of persistence, conniving, and luck, I was in a privileged position in Paris: writing the Paris section of a travel guide.
by Alan SwyerThe first time Ike Turner told me I’d been sent to him by God, I should have known enough to bolt.
by Ann SwannFebruary in West Texas, the grass is scabby, mesquites thin and low. Here and there a slab of gray stone breaks the skin of the earth as though breaching for air.
by Adriana Gardella“Somebody’s going to have to share,” I said to the eight utensils assembled in the dishwasher’s silverware basket, one per compartment. I towered over them, dangling a recently used cereal spoon.
by Alan SwyerMy first music video was neither planned nor predictable. In fact, it ran counter to the conventional trajectory whereby directors begin their careers by making music videos or commercials, then graduate to feature films.
by George Drew“What is syntax?” That was my opening question to my Introduction to Poetry section one memorable first day of class.
by Julie McGalliardThe cocktail waitress in the logo is obviously based on the stereotypical sexy gal truck flaps. I can’t remember when I first saw one of those, but I first noticed them in Thelma and Louise, when the title characters make fun of it.
by M. M. AdjarianFrom the start, the world told my father he was an accident no one especially wanted to happen. Yet life still managed to offer him compensations.
by Mary Ann CooperIn August of 1971, I was twenty years old and miserable. All of my friends were away at college while I was still at home with my family.
by Jordan RizzeriWhen I pass the large, green sign on the New York State Thruway that says “Leatherstocking Region,” I know I am halfway.
by Juan ZapataYou come from a land of strife. A land that is broken and ruled by fear—dead men, women, and children hang from bridges and streetlamps. Gunshots are heard outside the home and people get beheaded for sport.
by Angela KubinecWhile optimistically dreading the future, I eat cornbread, collard greens, a dish known as Hoppin’ John, and some kind of pork—preferably hog jowls that were boiled in the pot full of collards.
by Jane-Rebecca CannarellaI try to pierce apple flesh with my incisors but always avoid using my tree stump molars.
by Andrea HansellOn a too-warm day in late May, I waited in a Maryland Department of Motor Vehicles branch office holding my dead husband’s license plates in my lap.