Essay by Mandy Shunnarah
Tattoos are the promises we make to ourselves.
Tattoos are the promises we make to ourselves.
I like first-person headshots possibly more than I like writing.
Have always in mind that the world is like you dream it.
The snake had pulled himself mostly under the pallet and was peeking out, flicking the air with his tongue.
My aunt’s attitudes reminded me of the cultural practice of senicide, abandoning the aging to die.
When I awake with no desire to rush for a pen, it’s hard to see the value in what is happening.
Maybe I’m finally starting to make my peace with living in the Midwest.
I couldn’t hear if the other men present said anything or whether they laughed; I was deaf to everything except the pulsing roar in my head.
Burying my religion to sell a novel? That’s bad faith—or no faith at all.
Something essential, something dangerous, loomed in this war and deserved the light of literary day.