Category / Nonfiction

Zain Khalid Dear guy, I get it. I’m Arab and, equally unfortunately, Arab-looking. I hadn’t shaved and was sweating a little while waiting for public transportation; I know we’re not allowed to do that. I also know it didn’t help that my bags looked like they were trafficking yellowcake uranium. Fuck me for traveling with […]

I see centipedes, or I think I do, out of the corner of my eye when I’m in the basement I lately call home. I catch a shadow on the floor, and my eyes dart into every patch of darkness, every lifeless piece of clothing strewn about. While brushing my teeth, I am distracted by a nail hole in the wall. I am drawing with eyeliner and glance up and there—there. A live one. A couple inches long with flamboyant feelers barely distinguishable from its hair-thin legs. You could comb those legs. Curl those legs. Run your fingers down and through and caress those legs.

Tina Schweitzer’s* grandmother’s Boston Terrier’s testicles hang like bruised fruit under his tail. Tina calls them “balls,” but I won’t, can’t, don’t call them anything. We sit on the couch and watch TV.

Janet Frishberg This essay was inspired by Melissa Chandler’s fictional story “Considering They Lived,” which can be found here.   That morning, was he wearing a pair of boxers we bought at Gap, with the cute seasonal patterns? How many hours did he sleep? How hot was his shower water? And what, exactly, did he […]

In junior high we were always calling each other cocksucker or queer, dickhead or dumbfuck, standing in the locker room waiting for the showers, our thin chests stuck out, chins raised in challenge,

A great deal of my childhood was focused on Scripture memorization. It’s the sword of the Spirit, after all! There was Sunday school on…well…Sunday and Awana on Wednesday—where we wore vests and sashes

Before the sleepless weekend in a borrowed apartment, before the subway where we screamed until it was clear we belonged to each other and ourselves, before we learned all the ways not to cut

Patsy Cline woke me at three a.m., singing “Crazy” at high volume. Another woman was wailing even louder. It had to be Louise because she was the only living female in the Brewster Arms.