“It’s my mother’s birthday this weekend,” she tells me as we ride the bus away from work. “Well, really my boyfriend’s mother. But they are like my adopted family.” I nod along, thinking of my own adopted family. A family… Continue Reading
In the early ’80s Baton Rouge still felt in many ways like a small, rural town. Spanish moss hung thickly from trees like bearded wise men standing guard over the imperial swamp. Neighborhood kids spent most of their free time… Continue Reading
“I’m leaving this place,” the boy says. “Too many … people.” He leans against the brick wall of the club downtown, smoking a cigarette, resting his free arm on a guitar case. A crowd of clubgoers forms to the left… Continue Reading
There is this man in my writers’ group. He clutches a blue ballpoint pen while the rest of us clatter away on our laptops like a bunch of twenty-first century hipsters. The rest of the group downs lattes or herbal… Continue Reading
By Jill Tydor Life can be hard to articulate. There was no real transition period that I can remember between the filterless state of childhood, where thoughts took a direct route from brain to mouth – to my now. Now,… Continue Reading
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