Non-Fiction

Addiction is an obsession. It takes over mind, body, and soul. It seeps into your pores, hides between your toes, collects in the corners of your eyes and under your nails.

Sometimes it comes in fits and starts and sometimes all at once in a deluge, but when you’re edging thirty years old, riding passenger…

“Your garden is like a park,” my mother-in-law would say when she came to visit us in Wisconsin from her home in Canada. It was a…

I was diagnosed with borderline personality disorder (BPD) in 1991 at thirty years-old, following my second suicide attempt. Individuals who have BPD lack the ability to…

Caleb was a sweet boy, with black hair and freckles, whose left leg was in a brace, causing the other kids to taunt him without mercy. Caleb’s best…

Days shy of my fortieth birthday, attended a class with master writing teacher Laleh Khadivi: in San Francisco at Christina Garcias’s Las Dos Brujas. A new meaning emerged…

No people remain to lift their hands in farewell. Home does not speak. It does not call out our names as we move up the steps onto the plane. It does not call out as if to say…

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…