by Jess Earl Mama told me that thunder is just the sound of angels bowling. The angel outside my window doesn’t have hands but maybe it just can’t bowl, like how Katie can’t eat peanut butter. The angel doesn’t look like the ones in Mama’s paintings; it looks like a…
by Elia Anie Kim BrokeBeak the magpie was easy to recognise at my bird bath because of his appearance. His plumage was striking black-and-white, with the upper beak broken off at the tip. Despite the fact that he had a compromised beak with which to forage with, he appeared to…
by Ian C Smith Photographers can be both artists and conservationists. When we see images of old or departed folk bathed in light in family albums – how young you look – so slim – that hair – pangs of sadness are gladdened, too, as we hustle to remain ahead…
by John Gregory Evans This story contains suicide and sexual assault. For some life hangs in the balance. Living in the shadows is never easy. Life after Military Sexual Trauma is not easy, either. But some of us reach that ideated pinnacle where suicide and attempts become an everyday experience….
by Michael McGrath When I received my first report card in the fall of 1967, I was afraid to bring it home. Unlike most of my friends, who had a collection of As, Bs, Cs—and the occasional D—to show for their efforts, the only grade featured prominently on my card…
By Omolayo C. Akinlosotu Koya For International Women’s Day, Southern New Hampshire University students were invited to submit essays in celebration of women’s contributions to society, with a focus on a particular woman who inspired the writer. This essay was selected for publication in The Penmen Review. Thousands of film…
By Jennifer Ward As a little girl, I was a dreamer. I wanted to be so many things—a teacher, a lawyer, an author, a fashion designer, an architect. Amid these dreams, I always imagined I would be happy doing something I loved. Still, during my first year of college, it…
By Loren Mayshark A blustery, white January day on Dutch Hollow Road in western New York. I was a benchwarmer freshman on the junior varsity basketball team in a school with about two hundred students. This meant the team was composed of both freshman and sophomore players, and I’d had…
By Mary Warren Foulk One weary pandemic day I found myself returning to Mark Doty’s Still Life with Oysters and Lemon. During my second semester at Vermont College of Fine Arts, my faculty advisor urged me to read it, and within the first few pages, I understood why. I was…
By Pamela Kaye (This piece first appeared in the online publication MixedMag.) My wife and I finally settled into a financially and physically secure retirement. Two years ago, we bought our forever home, unpacked boxes that had been in storage, and eased into the next chapter of life; for me,…
By Roberta Schine When I was a junior at Central High School, Mike Ventura invited me to Cornell University’s homecoming weekend. We had gone out a few times when he was still in Bridgeport. Once, he took me to Beardsley Park Zoo. Another time we sat in the Merritt Canteen…