By Adriel Morton
The flames in the fireplace mirrored the cadence of the evening. Hot and roaring, they won the struggle against the autumn chill. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents occupied every chair, couch, and crevice. The dinner dishes had been cleaned, but the dessert plates littered the living room.
Read MoreBy Jacqueline Skokna
At the age of sixteen, just one handhold from a boy was enough to convince me that I was worth loving. If I stood myself in front of a mirror then, my reflection bounced back with a good dose of teenage flaws and insecurities: hair too flat, hips too wide, lips too thin.
Read MoreBy Adriel Morton
Blood stained Mama’s good hand towel in the kitchen as I tried to keep my left ring finger from falling off. Well, maybe not falling off, but it was cut so deep I could have lost my arm for all I knew. I had been underneath the house in my hiding spot—that’s where I read his letters— and I mashed my finger in between a brick and a bit of siding.
Read MoreBy Jacqueline Skokna
May stood at the kitchen counter and peeled one potato after another, watching the skins fall into a little pile and wishing like a child for things to change. The peeling was mechanical, it was simple enough, a job she could do, a job she had done over and over. She looked up from her work.
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