The book pages have turned beige, and I don’t remember them starting off beige. They’ve gone beige the way re-run TV shows from the 90s have gone grainy and the…
Author: <span>Beth Hendrickson</span>
Heights bother me, not claustrophobia. What would I do—I question my interior self—wedged in a dark space, say in a cave, beneath the earth, confined, constricted, and suffocated by stone?…
He had the lesson time wrong. 4:30. He arrived earlier. He remembered his violin. He remembered his music. He waited in the hallway, and a girl scooted in before him,…
What I miss about the place are the sounds. Hisses. Sputters. Splutters. Burps. I miss the place and I think of onomatopoetic words: Fissure. Muck. Splatter. Whisper. Burble. Splat. Slurp.…
1-2-3-breathe -1-2-3-breathe. That’s the stroke-breath pattern swimmers follow. By which I mean swim-team-ish swimmers. Muscle memory is strong. I sneak a peek at a man with grey chest hair and…
I have a persistent fear of our dachshund disappearing into a muddle of bone and fur beneath the wheels of a minivan hurtling down our street. This is not our…