“The 24-Hour Prayer Room” by Rebecca Valley
I don’t believe in god, but I like asking him for favors . . .
Read MoreI don’t believe in god, but I like asking him for favors . . .
Read MoreMy friend Rafael says that the thing about dying in New York is, it doesn’t last very long. I tell him I’m not sure I know what he means by this, and I’m not sure he knows, either . . .
Read MoreA huge wall of windows looked out onto the thirteen planes, and scooting baggage cars, and the sideways rain. It’s not the way I remembered Dublin . . .
Read MoreFor a moment, you are in absolute bliss. You are a link on the chain of the eternal . . .
Read MoreI ask my ex-boyfriend to come with me to see Mojada: A Medea in Los Angeles at the Getty Villa. He declines…
Read MoreI always want to write about my mother’s hands. Her veins bulge, green and purple beneath her skin, and sometimes when she’s tired they travel up her wrists like garden snakes . . .
Read MoreSmell of sweet olive. Picking satsumas, kumquats, lemons, whatever overhung the sidewalk. Japanese plums from the tree in front of the house . . .
Read MoreI involuntarily recall a story I heard on NPR. A group of boys rape a 12-year-old girl. In an abandoned hunting cabin in the woods. At a summer camp . . .
Read MoreFully dressed, reclining on a bed at Ozanam Hall on the final day of her life, Grandma—distressed, distracted—asked me to move her legs…
Read MoreI attempt to eat a three-and-a-half pound, seven-patty cheeseburger, so that it may be named in my honor. I’ve been practicing for weeks…
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