Flash Nonfiction by Lisa Cox
She’d lift gifts from her suitcase, and I would forgive her desertion instantly.
She’d lift gifts from her suitcase, and I would forgive her desertion instantly.
It’s an odd suggestion, but I go, leaden and lost in the dust of the midway.
Kids take and take and take, and they may as well give back. Writing about them is a painless way for them to do it.
The nurse's answer underscored the futility I feared: 'It’s all hocus-pocus.'
Having a famous parent is a leg up to nowhere. It made sense to people that Kurt Vonnegut’s son would have mental health problems.
She looked dismayed. Maybe she’d never seen such a reaction to one of her cures.
It is only now that I have begun to understand just how bereft little Lillian must have felt at thirteen, a motherless child.
You do need Mom and Dad to fuck you up—or you don’t have much of a story.
Compared to these families, maybe my own isn’t so badly off, after all.
What was my mix? Was I part Jewish, Italian, African, Native American, Hispanic, Irish?