The first signs—paper lasted longer, printer cartridges didn’t fade, prelabeled files remained empty. It’s nothing, I thought. Every writer has such times. Word output isn’t everything. I’ve been thinking hard lately—that’s work too.
The next sign, only slightly more distracting, was the intermittent ache in my right arm. Had I slept on it the wrong way? Lugged that last heavy bag of groceries too far?
Then at my desk, I reached up toward the bookshelf and felt a sharp pang. Must have turned too quickly. But the pain wasn’t bad enough to seek treatment and became almost natural. I ignored the apparent coincidence that my arm hurt only when I reached to the bookshelf.
The discomfort increased, but I kept dismissing it and concentrated on more cerebral matters.…
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The life cycle of the salmon is a common topic in schools around Washington state. Karen learned about their fatal migration growing up in the Skagit Valley, around the same time her husband Jake studied their Columbia River struggles in Vancouver. Karen remembered painting the salmon species of her choice in fourth grade. She’d painted a sockeye, with its distinctive humped back, garish red sides and hooked jaw. The final product resembled an exaggerated caricature more than the actual creature. Her mother had hung it on the refrigerator for a season before relegating it to a box in the attic with other touchstone school projects, essays, awards and other art projects. Karen wondered if her sockeye was still there.
For Jake, these annual studies of the salmon included multiple field trips to the Bonneville Dam fish ladder and the hatcheries along the Columbia’s tributaries.…
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Samodiva: A Bulgarian folktale¹
Once upon a time there lived a young beauty, whose name was Samodiva. She was a princess in a small kingdom, tucked away among the enchanted hills of mountain Emos. Her father was king Charismat. The king was wise and was much loved by the people, who had long lived in peace and prosperity under his rule. The mother of the princess, queen Delikacia, was as beautiful as the fertile valleys in the kingdom in spring. Delikacia was a woman kind and delicate and she died giving birth to her daughter. Charismat’s heart was full of sorrow but he poured out all his remaining love and kindness on the little princess.
When she grew up, stories of her incredible beauty travelled beyond the borders of her kingdom.…
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I would rather die of passion than of boredom.
Van Gogh
The Caribbean did a voodoo on me. Until I finally broke the spell, it held me in an iron grip – I had to include a trip to this part of the world in my repertoire at least once a year. My excuse to myself for spending so much money and time on going somewhere familiar while so much of the world lay unexplored was the plethora of different islands I could visit. But in reality, I was simply addicted to it.
I believe that every trip we make – even short and seemingly inconsequential ones – changes who we are, but the Caribbean can give anyone an acute existential crisis. My advice: don’t go there with your loved one.…
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tonight all the versions of myself lay together on my twin size bed. one is vomiting over the metal railing, a snap of a girlfriend kissing someone else playing on repeat in their palm. one listens to our dad’s hand-curated phoebe bridgers playlist. one can’t stop eating, and one can’t eat at all, and one is somewhere in-between. one calls a friend about social studies. one calls a friend about ap history. one calls a friend and asks if they should switch their major to creative writing and five minutes later ends the call. one texts their brother. one hates their brother. one decides they don’t really mind their brother all that much. one hates their brother and curses him to hell. one is shopping on etsy for birthday gifts for their brother.…
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The door slammed shut and woke Mere. The sun was already setting. She’d slept for over an hour. Sleeping for two, she thought as she rubbed her eyes.
Patricio threw his coat across the couch. He rubbed his hands. “Cold out there. Low 40s and not even Turkey Day yet.” He reached under her blankets. “Warm in here.” He touched her neck.
Mere yiped and sat up. “Oh my God, Patricio. Knock it off.”
“Touchy.” He collapsed on to the couch.
Mere pulled her legs up to her chest, so he wouldn’t sit on her.
“Long day at work.” Patricio rubbed his eyes and yawned. “Ten-hour shift. A car accident. A heart attack. Quiet down at the casinos.” He reached for Mere’s hand. “What’d you do all day?”…
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The four boys stood on the concrete former pontoon outlined by the mountains or hills on the horizon. I couldn’t tell you which they were from my position on the beach. Surrounding them, sat at their feet, were other young men and women. But the four boys who stood tall above the rest seemed to be in a group of their own. While the others occasionally jumped into the sea that was garishly sprinkled with diamonds of the type you’d find decorating the cheap bags on Avenue Guy de Maupassant, the boys fought.
Though mainly just shadows and outlines in the heat of the midday sun, I could see a tall one, a fat one, a shorter one and a fourth of normal size for a 13 or 14 year old.…
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