Non-Fiction

Mama and Barry mashed lumpy boiled potatoes into furrows with their forks, spread sour cream on top. I hated it. Mama cooked this every night, except the weekends when we had stringy boiled chicken.

Lisa worried her way through the second round of in vitro and the resulting pregnancy with Stella and Jackson. Our first in vitro…

DEAR OLD WEST TECH, WE’LL ALWAYS LOVE YOU. It’s the opening line of my high school…

“Eg tala ekki Islensku,” I say, with a perfect accent: “I don’t speak Icelandic.” It’s the sentence I utter most often in my mother’s language…

Hamid told Ava he was standing at the corner of King and James when a goose dropped like a flailing accordion out of the sky.

My mom made sure we were in the car by three in the morning, quickly cramming us into a rented tour van. Eleven of us were on the way to Mama Cuca’s house…

Tucked into the soft cushions of the couch, I look out through the branches of the Christmas tree at the front lawn.

Writing is dangerous. It’s a broken bone mended wrong. A healing scab you pick until it bleeds. It opens wounds and forgets how to close them. Instead, leaves it gaping.

My outdoorsy boyfriend lived for the feeling of shoving his feet into one-size- too-small rock climber shoes and dangling off the sides of cliffs.