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KIRWAN-TAYLOR: Hemingway goes to Toads

In the winter of that year I had come into some money as my father had died. I had squandered too many evenings drinking alone, […]

dangorodezky
ZHAO: Going home

I didn’t unpack my suitcase during winter break. Instead, I just left it lying there, its contents spilling out onto the floor. Sweaters. Socks. Shoes. […]

katherinexiu
AMBROSE: Boys of Summer

CJ flipped her bat like Sammy Sosa and watched the orb sail high and far past the oak, cleaving cleanly through the dead heat of […]

lauriewang
TISDALE: Uncharted Territories

It’s late October, colder and darker than usual. I’m holding my grandmother’s arm as we walk across the bleachers facing Shorewood High School’s soccer field. […]

carolinetisdale
Sincerely, Donald Trump

Dear Donald, There are actual males in my classes. This is a completely novel situation for me. I went to an all-girls high school. I […]

dangorodezky
Don’t go to Soads, go to Yaledancers

Instead of getting down at Woad’s this week, I decided to find out where the Yalies who actually can dance hang out. Little did I […]

Not everyone has a story

What’s your story?

deleinelee
A Voice from the Backseat

We didn’t call it anything, but my mother and I played a game when I was a child

yannalee
NAIK: Wholly Guacamole

Advertisements in the early 20th century referred to the avocado as the “aristocrat of salad fruits,” and while the saying isn’t common today, you’d be hard-pressed to find someone who disagrees. Who doesn’t love a ripe avocado? Even harder to find is someone who doesn’t love the avocado’s most celebrated offspring … guacamole.

dangorodezky
BALKOSKI: Holding too many absolutes

Here is a quote from “The Glass Essay,” a poem by Anne Carson: “You remember too much, / my mother said to me recently. / Why hold onto all that? And I said, / Where can I put it down?”

lauriewang
AMBROSE: Or are we dancer?

Señora Cordoba commanded her forces with enough confianza — confidence — to impress a military lieutenant. Brief pauses punctuated her rapid-fire speech, as if to give her breathless students a fair chance to decipher the meaning of her long-winded instructions. Every Friday night, the maestra opened dance lessons the same way: screaming, stomping and traipsing icily through the claustrophobic gymnasium stuffed with sweaty middle-schoolers.

chairinkim