Non-Fiction

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.

Already 5’9” at twelve years old, I never knew where my hands were until I bumped into a doorway or where my feet were until I tripped over…

Whenever my siblings mention the frying pan incident, I laugh along with them, even though I find it tragic and and far from funny.