It is hot enough that the smallest of baby hairs stick to your neck, but the breeze picks up and the beer is cold.
It is hot enough that the smallest of baby hairs stick to your neck, but the breeze picks up and the beer is cold.
My left eyelid convulses, writhes, jitters like a rabbit’s twitching nose as it hops towards lettuce.
My OB was out, so her sub answered my midnight call.
I stopped by the liquor store on my lunch break and saw him standing beside a display of pineapple ale.
It was our first date and I was fifteen minutes late.
Thwack! Another bird strike.
On my walk I approach a group of kids who are waiting for the school bus.
One afternoon in the early 1970s our family got takeout from McDonald’s.
We were a dozen teenagers determined to fulfill an ancient tradition.
The house was in chaos: a dozen six-year-olds like myself shrieking, shoving, leaping amongst balloons, paper streamers, and spilled M&M’s.
The nurse wheeled our child away and my husband held the wall up so he would not crumble.
Frustrated, I slow my pace as the wind whips the words from my ears.
I skim my father’s vanity-published, dictated, ghost-written memoir, as short and overcompensated as a two-block parade …
On our scooter ride home, my nine-year-old daughter asked, “Would it upset you if someone messed with your things?”
I couldn’t have known that her shoes would be important.
I push backward gently and lift my feet from the ground, the swing holding me tight.
It’s a Wednesday morning. Twenty-four bullets from a National Guard .50 caliber machine gun rip into Tanya Blanding’s four-year-old body.
Outside, glass-blue sky and air-sucking heat, avocado arms reached up from saguaros with spiked, crimson-tipped ocotillo neighbors.
The earring is antique gold with garnets and seed pearls.
“Do you see that handsome man over there?”