The Window
The boy pulls his chair up to the window. He does this every Wednesday night to watch the woman in the pink towel in the apartment across the tiny alley.
The boy pulls his chair up to the window. He does this every Wednesday night to watch the woman in the pink towel in the apartment across the tiny alley.
I relax my hands and remember that, when we work together, we know what to do. They guide me to the right place without fail, and slip in easily with a sigh.
It is a sweltering night the first time I am unfaithful. One of those late July nights where the city clings to you. Hollywood is on fire.
The Sweater: The doctors tell me the main tumor in my chest is the size of a softball. She uses a double strand of yarn and thin knitting needles…
“Alison, Daddy died today,” spoke my mom. She had positioned me on a wicker-backed bar stool in the center of my kitchen…
My last partner threw me away after my legs wouldn’t open for him. He didn’t explicitly say that of course; he said something about a lack of connection.
Read the short story, The Prisoner: Free at Last, by Phil McNichol: “Quite often I fell to my knees and beat my fists against that block.”
Short story by Jeremy Luke Hill: “He was backing away, his hands held out in front of him to ward off whatever it was that was happening before his eyes…”
– Creative Non-Fiction by A’nah Nymas – April 5, 2018 –
I packed a bag with a few outfits and antiperspirant; I heard it gets hot in hell. Read More »To Hell and Back in Time for Dinner