Now
The shape of a memory: surviving sexual abuse outside the bounds of rationality
I don't remember the first time I was raped, but I know it happened. I don't recall when the memory was lost. I can't answer #WhyIDidntReport. I do recall remembering exactly what happened, in re-traumatizingly clear detail, two years later: in the middle of an...
Half as much (pt. 5)
Under a waning crescent moon, Amara is in the woods, dipping her hand into a black plastic garbage bag and plucking out tiny cafeteria packets of salt; ripping them open with her teeth and shaking them out until their combined contents form a thick, unbroken circle....
Half as much (pt. 4)
Patrice Leah Brown, Esq. holds a steaming cup of ginseng tea in one smooth brown manicured hand and scans her maroon At-A-Glance with the other. Someone had the nerve to schedule meetings at 12:30 p.m. and 4 p.m. She shakes her head and considers canceling before she...
Half as much (pt. 3)
“It’s more than grief, baby...” “But sometimes that seems like that’s all there is.” “There’s joy, too. Trust me. But you have to be here for it.” “I feel raw, Mama.” “I know, baby. But you’ll toughen up. You’ll get stronger.” “I don’t think I’m as strong as you,...
Half as much (pt. 2)
The wind is smacking the metal blinds against Amara’s open bedroom window when she gets back to her apartment, making an awful racket. Damn. I hope that hasn’t woken Mama up. She walks up the steps to the gate and undoes the latch, closing it behind her with a click....
Half as much (pt. 1)
Gusts of wind rustle dead leaves up and down the street. Something resembling a man stands at the edge of a wobbly ring of salt cast on the asphalt, leering down at someone resembling a teenage girl. His lumbering shadow eclipses her small frame, blocking out what...