Nonfiction
by Elisha Waldman.
“Our hospital in Jerusalem feels haunted. Not, as one might think, by the ghosts of former patients, but rather by the living…”
by Cynthia-Marie O’Brien.
“I am a figment of your imagination. You may laugh skeptically, and I admit there is much that would seem to prove I am anything but…”
by Rachel Hall.
“We tell our kids to give it their best shot before their big exams—calculus, say, or French—or before the championship game on a crisp autumn night, the stands filled with fans in the school colors, the stadium lights bright.”
by Judith Hannah Weiss.
“Probes puncture my scalp, surveying my mind. Temporal lobe, occipital lobe, you name it; there’s a probe for the lobe.”
by Mary Luce.
“It was a chilly November afternoon in a southern town so small it never made it to a map. I was in the bedroom typing when I heard the noise and then my mother’s scream. She somehow appeared at the door with her hand over her bloody abdomen and whispered, “Get the doctor, she shot me.”
by Anna Mirer.
“It is eleven o’clock at night, and I am stomping around with half a skull in
my hand.”
by Alexa Rose Steinberg.
“Throughout the evening, I hear explanations of why people can’t talk when I call…”
by Nancy Devine.
“This must be the first harvest from our acreage: our young vineyard singing, the plastic, ribbed grow tubes that make little greenhouses for each of the young grape plants catching wind and, like a throat and its vocal chords, producing a note.”
by Ucheoma Onwutuebe.
“I am a Nigerian woman, plagued by Nigerian womanly problems. When I moved to America for graduate school last summer, I believed this new country would shield me from those nagging afflictions.”