creative prose

"Manipulated mugshot of Brad Renfro (original 2000)" (2025), NIGHTSHADE (Alejandro Concas-Rivas). Courtesy of artist.WHEN JOSH SCHAEDEL invited me to contribute a text to accompany Steve Kado’s exhibition Stairs at The Fulcrum Press, I thought about how Kado once said...

It was the twenty-fourth of December and my firm had given us the day off. I thought I would spend the day at home, but the boardinghouse was unbearably loud—the landlady had invited her sisters, and they were clucking and bickering like hens. So instead, I grabbed my...

Aleatoric: Solely dependent on the throw of a dice or on chance; random. There’s something barreling towards me. Hulking. I can feel it closing in. It’s starting to envelop my future body, which will be my now-body, which will be the body I might want to live in one...

Welcome to the Memory Database, Charlie. Who would you like to speak to? Who would I like to speak to? Every time I come here, I try to talk to someone new, someone I’ve never heard of. Let’s try … Rogers. I enter my name of the day. Of course, there are thousands of...

I’m sitting on the bed, unpacking my suitcase. I’m not entirely sure where I am. Somewhere near the border of France and Switzerland. From the window: a bell tower, a smudge of sky, and the kind of greenery that feels alive. Spring, or something like it. The house...

Jazz speaksin a language all its own,mysterious and compelling.Captivates people of every age.Regales with melody, rhythm and pattern.Jazz speaksan original American creation.An amalgam of the greats—Straight ahead, bebop, fusion,avant-garde, swing.Flavors so rich and...

“Have you cried yet? I’ve only cried once.” My sister Thea’s speech is precise, like she’s not been wandering her mind across the sky. She’s poised against the brittle trunk of the only tree in the graveyard. She holds the end of a chewed lollipop stick with one hand...

Consider the work of God;who can make straight what he has made crooked?—Eccles. 7:13 (NRSV)Her name was Elizabeth Kauffman.This is the only picture I have of her, my great-great-grandmother, and she is old. Diminutive. Covered neck to dull boots in plain black...

facing my mother in her lavish living room, i blow a red balloon. my younger sister, mellow with hash, tosses a yellow one onto the carpet while my older sister fretfully adds cheese sambūsa, warag ʿanab, and sticky toffee pudding to the menu. a sign boasting the ages...

SINDHU AAJI ALWAYS opened the door with a smile and a list of questions. No matter how often this happened, I never felt prepared.I was unaccustomed to it—to questions about my life, about my work, about me—even when they came from my husband’s octogenarian...

FROM AN EARLY AGE, as the daughter of immigrants, you see resilience reveal itself in small, unnoticed moments. It comes as translating for your mother, sitting in waiting rooms with your imagination and alertness side by side, and watching your parents try to...

THE MAN FACING me from the tabletop is aware of all my shortcomings. He looks strong, wholesome in his youth, with a big nose and heavy jawline. Because the eyes are too close together, he is almost ugly, but it just adds to his Apollonian quality. We’ve only just met...