The night before Christmas Eve. Bert watched the taillights of the Amtrak ‘Banker’ fade up the tracks toward Springfield. No one had gotten off in Hartford except him. It was clear and still and cold.
Union Station was deserted. He was disappointed Trudy hadn’t surprised him and walked eight blocks to meet the train. In a way he was glad, too – still to be alone, still moving toward her.
He carried his suitcase down Railroad Street to Asylum. A liquor store was open and he bought a pint of Jack Daniels. Tomorrow they would drive to Troy for Christmas. He was looking forward to seeing Mom and Pop Steiner.
After a block he opened the whiskey and took a drink.
Bert watched Trudy through the plate glass door descend the long flight of wooden stairs.…
If only there could always be hamentaschen for breakfast: little cookie triangles crumbling into coffee. If only there was always coffee. If only the coffee would grind itself—silently. If only I craved tea in the morning and not coffee. If only there was always optimal-temperature tea and time to read during a rainstorm, soft light, a blanket. If only in the rainstorm a cat named Edith found her way to me. Or an Eddie. I would also take a male cat named Eddie in a rainstorm, bedraggled, slightly grumpy. If only Eddie would be willing to contemplate a name change to something that better fits his personality. Or if not, if only he’d let me tell everyone that Eddie is short for Editorializer, Edification, One-half-of-a-set-of-identical-twins. If only Eddie could gain the power of speech to tell me that last one seems like a stretch.…
The sand squelches between my squirmy toes, as I clutch my red bucket of curious creatures— captured by my bubbling interest.
I venture closer to the ocean’s edge, a shell suddenly slicing into my foot. My blood mingles with sand and gravel, like strawberry syrup and graham cracker crumbles.
The sea eagerly laps at my wounded skin, salt sizzling against the rawness within. My bucket topples, releasing its captives, and I watch them scurry back to their homes.
I received a warning, a debt to settle for my youthful curiosity. A price in lifeblood, transaction now complete.
Well, she had acquired an Irish name—Miss Horan. A lovely lilt leavened her language. And her eyes were the startling grey-blue sometimes seen in that race.
Trouble was, she putting it all on. Miss Horan was actually Romanian, or some such. Old Doc, who was relating the story to me whilst barbering my hair, was not certain from whence the woman actually came. Since we both knew the truth of it, it went unsaid that on our island, people hail from everywhere and mix like mad. So it’s simple enough to up sticks and move yourself to a new spot where you can pretend to be someone else if you feel the need of it. For a time, then, it suited the woman who called herself Miss Horan to be Irish.…
Anna Rollins’s debut memoir, Famished: On Food, Sex, and Growing Up as a Good Girl, will be published by Eerdmans on December 9th, 2025. Rollins blends memoir, reporting, and research to examine how diet culture and biblical purity culture instruct women to fear their bodies and deny their appetites. She is also the author of numerous essays and craft pieces including: Between the Sunflower Stalks in The New York Times; Running an Olsen Twins Fanpage Taught Me to Craft an Online Identity in Electric Literature;and many others in outlets (such as Slate, Salon, NBC News THINK, and Joyland).
Raised as a lifelong Appalachian in a Baptist community, she lives in West Virginia with her husband and children.…
“It says here that when Leonardo Da Vinci died, he asked forgiveness for not using his art to the fullest of his abilities. That somehow, he had failed God and mankind.” A lanky man with a thick red scarf around his neck folded his newspaper, stuffed it into his jacket pocket, and turned to his companion not expecting an answer. The two men had stopped to take a break from their afternoon walk, sitting down on a bench overlooking a stretch of beach that surrendered to waves, the bay, then out to the ocean.
“Guilt.”
“Excuse me?”
“He was Catholic, wasn’t he?”
“And what does that have to do with anything?”
“The old boys back then probably made him feel guilty because he couldn’t turn clay into gold.…
