Summer Homes: A poem

Chicago, Illinois:

I don’t remember seeing any wind

But I did flick your bean.

You dealt me a cold one

And it was received in deep dish and Irish pubs

I didn’t look up your skirt this time

But you surely looked up mine at the top of Sears Tower

I’ll remember our one-night stand,
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Garden bodies: A poem

I’m a redhead down there too. It’s coarse, curly and gleams golden and copper in the right light. Just the right length, overcrowded and protective. I thought it was beautiful until the world told me it wasn’t. So I brought an axe to the forest. No… more like the maple
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A woman holding a glass of wine and a card that says "love you"

Fatal Reveries: A short story

Content warning: The following short story contains mentions of depression and suicide.  Mae Franklin planned on killing herself today. She was now determined with the idea, though for so long it remained a distant promise — like when she planned on moving to Aruba or pursuing a PhD in literature.
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From the Design Desk | Artwork by Olivia Staser

Bullets and arrows: A series

Here at The Daily Californian, the design department is responsible for both laying out the physical newspaper you pick up every day as well as for handling all the illustrations you see accompanying feature stories, editorials and op-eds. Many of the staff also work on art in their own time,
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Instructions on Building a Home: A personal essay

An Armenian diasporan reflects on intergenerational trauma

I have been ripped out of nothing and tossed into a new world. The smooth arch of my eyebrow, the bump of my nose, the earthy tones of my skin proclaim a wealthy heritage of people crossing rivers and oceans to reach America. Their beauty is mapped onto my body
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The taste of home: A personal essay

Daol Tofu stands on the corner of 43rd Street and Telegraph Avenue, a small 30-seat restaurant next to Urbano Latino, a shuttered Latin-fusion restaurant, and across the street from Dandelion Post, a women’s clothing store that also probably doubles as an apothecary or perhaps sells Native American-inspired necklaces. Daol, which
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A person with gold dripping out of their mouth

The Light Bleeder: A short story

Last Tuesday, I met a woman who spills glowing clouds of breath from between her lips with every word she speaks, like she begs me to match her gleam. And if I showed her, “Yes, I glow too” and slid a blade along my finger, let the light drip out
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Rocky cliffs collide with the ocean.

Homecoming: A poem

Do spaces remember what/they once held?/Does reality linger/in drywall and floorboards —/the hands that brushed across them,/the socked feet that slid and fell/over them?
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An aerial photograph of the Earth at night.

32.949.916: A poem

There are pieces of me scattered all over the world.

They live and breathe and grow the same as I do,

but settle where I no longer can.
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