From December of last year onward, I have thought about bread every day, without exception. It started about six months after I got married. I cried a lot those first few months, and though I would always tell my husband that I didn’t know why I was so upset, I can tell you now that
We bring them down from high shelves in guest room closets. We carry them up from basement boxes where they rest next to strings of Christmas lights, enamelware pots, rakes, trunks full of mothballs and wool. Unbox, unbin pumps in leather if winter, patent if Easter has passed, heels thicker than strumpet but not too
Back from summer break, we’re excited to start reading your submissions! To get a sense of what we’re looking for, read our 2018-19 print edition. It’s now online. Click on this ugly link to start reading our beautiful issue: http://webapps.towson.edu/ec/publications/grubstreet/2019/issue1/index.html
You see, my parents were always picky about their food. They wouldn’t eat this, they wouldn’t eat that. Very choosy. Which sometimes got them in trouble. That’s why it was particularly peculiar on Thanksgiving Day that they ate the whole meal themselves. My mother does not like turkey, but she ate the thing whole… My
By Alexa Smith, 2018-19 Fiction Editor I performed a speedy pre-scan of Beth Ann Fennelly’s 52 micro-memoirs, Heating and Cooling. I stopped at page 63. The word Beyoncé caught my eye at the top right-hand side of the page. I knew this book and I would be great friends. I was curious to see where
I have a gynecologist appointment today. I’m scared, strangely. And I’m just now realizing that I’m not scared of my doctor per say, or the sterile smell, or the plethora of expired magazines, or the bubbled-bellies of the women sitting next to me, or the crinkle of the paper under my naked lower half, or
I am writing to ask if you’d like to dance again in the kitchen. I have never been much for a phone call, as you know. I was thinking I could bring boas and peacock flumes for our shoulders and the waists of our pants. All the times you’ve tried to teach me the Charleston
Let’s speak of the grizzly bear in the middle of the room. Thick black rambutan branches dripping citrus under the sun. What extra powers are suppressed beneath? Lulling opponents to sleep with each bend against the wind. Hope is lost if you stare directly into the void because by then, arms will outstretch to consume
A swing brushes the cement low, in slow motion, as if drawn through night’s deep syrup, as if burdened, holding the dark ball of a child hidden in the twilight’s smeary sleight of hand. They must be there: it’s some trick of the bare winter branches and sallow moonlight. Their shivering laughter rattles like dead