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Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaabout 15 hours ago in Poets
Field of the Fallen
Sunlight danced softly across the frost-crusted fields, making the little blades of grass sparkle like emeralds. The faraway chirrup of a songbird was the only disruption to the quiet of the morning. An icy chill, the last vestige of the dying winter, clung to the air, settling in a thick white mist at the far side of the open field. The heavy stench of decay hung in that mist, punctuation by the sharp tang of freshly spilled blood.
By A. J. Schoenfeld7 days ago in Fiction
Blessed 33
So I woke up on the morning of February 5, 2026 and guess what and you know what I realized? It’s my 33rd birthday. Do you know what that means? Yes, technically I’m getting old, but what I couldn’t have guessed was this would be one of the best days of my life.
By Joe Pattersonabout 18 hours ago in Confessions
The Angry Man in Your House
"If you grow up with an angry man in your house, there will always be an angry man in your house" This statement has caused plenty of controversy online, people say its a statement that blames victims while also undermining those who break traumatic cycles to form health relationships... but if I'm honest now that I'm in my 30s it makes more sense to me than ever, and I'd argue that its not just about fathers and uncles.
By S. A. Crawforda day ago in Humans
Rachel Reviews: Lunch Tales: Teagan by Lucille Guarino
Well, I did enjoy this! Sometimes, all you need is just great storytelling and this is what Lucille Guarino delivers here. There's no big message to this book; it's just about folks and families, living their lives and coping with everything that's being thrown at them and finding their way. But when it's done well, like it is here, then you have characters to whom you can relate, tension which leaves you rooting for a better outcome, attraction which has your heart racing and an urge, as a reader, to see the characters happy with the people with whom they belong.
By Rachel Deeming2 days ago in BookClub
The Lesions of Devotion
Every day I set myself down on the freshly cut lawn and strip myself bare. I take my guitar and finger the frets and pick at the strings, listening for dissonance. My life is dissonance. I twist the tuning pegs until each string sounds bright. Then I kneel, calves pointing behind me, kneecaps facing forward. All exposed to the breeze. I close my eyes and play the melody.
By Paul Stewart2 days ago in Fiction
Public Announcement Challenge Winners
For the Public Announcement Challenge, writers were asked to work inside voices built for control. These were notices, warnings, and updates meant to inform rather than confess. The strongest entries committed to that form and didn't break from it. Corporate memos, formal government alerts, and internal policy language were held consistently, allowing emotion, fear, grief, or humor to surface indirectly through pressure rather than declaration. The following poems recognize the voice of authority, and let human feeling slip through despite all its rules and restraint.
By Vocal Curation Team3 days ago in Resources
The Light Turns
It's Tuesday 7:13 a.m. A cold and clear November morning awaits Ray on his morning commute. Ray rubs his hands together in the front seat of his Subaru. He turns the air temperature up, but keeps the air on low until the air warms up. He looks at the backup camera screen and reverses the Subaru out of his driveway onto Trimble Road.
By John R. Godwin3 days ago in Fiction
Living in SillyVille, U.S.A.
U.S. President Donald Trump speaks at a ceremony held to dedicate a 4-mile stretch of road from West Palm Beach Airport to his Mar-a-Lago estate to be named as 'President Donald J. Trump Boulevard', at the Mar-a-Lago estate in Palm Beach, Florida, U.S., January 16, 2026. REUTERS/Kevin Lamarque.
By Novel Allen8 days ago in Poets
