Today I encountered two women on my walk. Wearing a pink, Live Generously t-shirt, an older woman didn’t look up as I said hello for the 6th day. The second woman, younger, walking two labs—one brown, one yellow—turned away when I said good morning.
I will keep trying.
Lisa Lillibridge is an artist/photographer/writer raised in South Dakota. She spends her time in Burlington, Vermont and Sandwich, Massachusetts. Her work is mostly about identity and the tricky business of finding home within oneself. See more at lisalillibridge.com.
The eyes have it, above the masks, in a store less crowded, a town away. No one I know here, but recognizable–the eyes wide and searching and sometimes scared–because I see those same eyes in the mirror when I try on the mask, to see how I look.
Jon Fain wrote this story.
Her eyes scan the fruits and vegetables—oranges, apples, eggplants, peppers—neatly piled like cascading mountains. Nothing like the crowded, messy markets of home. No loud negotiations and catch-ups with familiar faces. Here, just screeches from carts.
Swallowing the lump in her throat, she takes some okra and moves on.
Mariya Khan is a fiction writer from Maryland and Editorial Assistant at National Geographic. When she’s not visiting museums or exploring D.C., you can find her cooking new recipes while binge-watching crime dramas.
There’s a steady hum of voices sprinkled with laughter coming from the recreation room of Happy Days Rest Home.
A new craze called “Write A Fifty-Word Story and Then Read It” has taken the residents by storm.
The winner gets an extra helping of soft-boiled eggs and prunes for breakfast.
Charlotte McElroy is an 80-year-old retired teacher. She is finally following her dream: writing! Thank you for giving her this opportunity.
It is garbage pickup day in Cambridge.
The empty bins are dancing in the street, rolling hither and yon, blown by the blustery gusts of wind, wind that has driven unimpeded from the icy Canadian tundra.
Neighbor corrals bin for neighbor; trash is secured house by house; the community thrives.
Martin Evans is an escapee from academia where he thrived for 35 years. He now potters around Cambridge, so he really didn’t escape academia!
My house is made of windows. I clench the rock in my hand and shove it in my pocket.
They slur words by the barbecue—the meat sings as it burns.
I jump on the trampoline and break through. My ankles begin swelling as I limp through empty beer cans.
Khalilah Okeke was raised in the Pacific Northwest and now resides in Sydney, Australia, with her husband and two children. Her work has been published in Down in the Dirt magazine, The Red Eft Review, and The Orissa Society of the Americas Journal. You can follow her blog at khalilahokeke.wordpress.com.