the chilliad
fiction
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astrid takes a bath
cw: suicidal ideation. (this is fiction! but take care of yourselves.) Anyway: The question, obviously, is not “does she want to be dead.”
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Heartlands
Before sunup I collect eggs and bring them into the kitchen. My mother washes them in the kitchen sink and leaves two on the counter when the rest go into the fridge. She boils them just long enough so that when you peel the shell off the white is gummy but the yolk still runs like melt. She calls them “heartland eggs.” “I thought heartlands were places that don’t touch the ocean,” I say, sucking up dribbling yolk off my fingers. My mother hands me a napkin with Christmas bells on it. “Anywhere that nobody but you can touch.”
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You Have All Drunk From Circe’s Cup
There is a tree on the shore of Llyn y Van Ffach with a face carved into it. The face is laughing and crying at the same time. Its low branches look like arms, like hands, like fingers. Its low branches say come here and do not be afraid and take only what is given. She loved him; she lost him. It is as simple as that. (Only: of course it is never as simple as that.)
nonfiction
disaster! an autobiography
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the time a small misunderstanding almost sent me to porn prison
the problem with pay-per-view is that you have to pay per view.
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the time my cousin barea accidentally lit her head on fire and now i think she’s hiding something
“please help,” barea whispered.
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the time my mom adopted a wild boar and it all went very badly, as anticipated
my mom was and is a Horse Girl.
molly ofgeography 