Dear Hand Part, I’m not talking to you, Web linking thumb and index finger. Nor you, Palm scarred with lines of life. Not you either, Back-of-Hand where vein worms nudge…
Author: <span>Beth Hendrickson</span>
There’s no convincing my dachshund not to eat a rock. If the definition of eating is swallowing, technically, she doesn’t eat rocks. She masticates them. I blame the appetite on…
It blushes purple until the purple apologizes and fades pink into red. But the purple—that’s assertive. That’s uncommon. That purple causes him to pause, run his thumb over that blushing…
It’s March-April-May-June, a tunnel of months in which a season rotates once then twice, and if I ignore the dictated terms of the calendar, other things alert me time has…
I’m so honored to feature guest writer Lydia Edler with this post. Isak Dinesen said, “I start with a tingle, a kind of feeling of the story I will write.…
The baseball flew through the air before a pumpkin. Next, a ball of a gazillion rubber bands banged the classroom door. These projectiles were treated as normal by the 23…