Creative Nonfiction

Advice I've Received

By: Paula Ramirez

The Two Fs of Self-Discovery

She came out of nowhere. Bursting from the swirling crowd of monochrome, the short, characteristically middle aged woman entered as though already mid conversation. As though I’d rung her up in the morning and told her to meet me here, at the beginning of the Puente de Isabel II on the sunniest day of winter. Inserting herself into our duo naturally--me and my roommate of two months--she introduced herself with imploring eyes and a firm handshake as Susan Martin-Cobble. She wasted no time in getting the usual pleasantries out of us.

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73 Reasons Why I Do Not Have a Statue Yet

By: Andrew Cox

  1. In 5th grade, a smart, beautiful girl wrote me a love letter and asked me to the dance. I crumpled up the letter and threw it in the trash. I intended to apologize to her in 12th grade Calculus on the last day of school, but I didn’t.

  2. In 4th grade, my mom told me that the NASCAR driver Bobby Hamilton had cancer. I said “So?” and looked over at my friend to laugh.

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By: Laura Durr

I remember when I was small – my feet dangling off the front of the piano bench, too short to reach the pedals, but I don’t remember what it sounded like the first time my small fingers stretched wide enough to give birth to a chord. I remember standing on a dining chair in front of the kitchen sink as my mom scrubbed vigorously at my fingernails with a washcloth,

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By: Lindsey Knapp

I’m reading a book of essays in Bongo Java when I remember that one of his eyes is slightly lazier than the other. I look up from the page and stare into space for a second while I replay the memory in my mind. Me, in the passenger seat. Him, in the driver’s seat (my car, the one with the rust-covered roof, he didn’t have his own then). Him, saying something sweet to me. I remember it was sweet from his little half-smile and the feeling I had after, like he’d covered with me with a soft blanket. His hands, left on the still steering wheel and right just between us, twitching a bit so I could tell he wanted to touch me.

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At the Edge of In Between

By: Lauren Ash

“I think I peaked in high school,” I groan to my mother during my obligatory weekly phone call home. I say it with my face tipped upwards and arm draped across my eyes like the distressed heroine of a 1950s movie as I walk in circles behind my dorm.

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On The Body

By: Katherine Heidecke

Sometimes, I think holding someone’s hand is more intimate than kissing someone’s lips. There’s more to lose when you make the first subtle move of a slightly outstretched arm, palm facing up. The first step of many small intimacies. Letting my fingers intertwine with his submits me to a power that is not my own.

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