“Worshippers,” by Caitlin Kindervatter-Clark, appears in the Winter 2019 Issue of MQR. After half a lifetime of unsuccessfully trying to control my drinking, I decided to surrender the whole endeavor and quit. In the wake of this decision, my ego underwent a partial collapse. Drinking had been a major part of how I defined myself; it […]
“On Contemplating a Second Child,” by Jennifer Case, appears in the Winter 2019 Issue of MQR. The winter my husband and I debate whether or not to have a second child, I am a new faculty member at a state university. The job is a good one— the promising start of a long and hopefully rewarding career—and
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“Breathe,” by Ash Whitman, appears in the Winter 2019 Issue of MQR. When I think about who I am in my light brown skin, I always come back to Olvera Street. Olvera Street, wedged between Union Station and the Santa Ana Freeway, stuck in time but still fluttering with people shopping and vibrant pinks, greens, and
Clamping my hand over my left boob, which was leaking a slow and deliberate drip-drip-drip into my nursing bra and then into my marled gray t-shirt, and then onto my hand, I galloped up the basement stairs, taking two steps at a time, my body needing to feel my baby’s body. My first baby. I
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I think of my grandmother whenever I delight over rotting corpses and the life cycle of maggots, when I research methods of picking locks, escaping from car trunks, or working myself loose when I am tied to a chair and someone is trying to pull my teeth out with pliers. I think of her when I see unmarked vans with suspicious drivers. I think of her in dark alleys, or when I read news stories of cat murders.
“We Will Return After These Messages,” by J.D. Ho Read More »
Abu Anis and Abu Alaa insisted, peeling back the mink blankets and lifting their mother between them. She was crying as they carried her out, and I was on the verge of tears, too, glaring intently into the cross-stitch project on my lap.
“Bringing Umm Saleh Home,” by Maryah Converse Read More »
Mom gave birth to me on the vernal equinox, just as the world begins to bloom, so it was no surprise that I inherited her love for the outdoors. We grew together as twin Persephones, bursting with life at the first sign of crocuses, and shrinking into sullen hibernation as the days darkened into winter.
“When Persephone Goes Away,” by Desiree Cooper Read More »
When they finally arrived in San Ysidro, California, she climbed out of the coyote’s trunk, where she was reborn, right there in the corner of a McDonald’s parking lot, parallel to the gargantuan 405 freeway, which looked that night like the tentacles of an electric octopus—bursts of white headlights and red taillights, swirling and whizzing by, right across the chain-link fence.
“Querida Angelita,” by Angela Morales Read More »
When was the first time you saw the sun? Not its winding tendrils, or its luminous glow, or even its radiant essence shining down upon your skin. Not its glare, or its intensity, or its resplendent effulgence—but it.
“Children of the Sun,” by Matt Jones Read More »
“The woman in the picture is not just different from what I remember of her, or want to remember: she is a ghost, like the ghosts I would see on strips of negatives as a girl. In daylight I would hold them up to my eye, trying to guess who they were, and when I grew bored of this, I would fashion these haunted ribbons into bracelets round my wrist.”
“How to Find Your Mother In Her Portrait,” by Iman Mersal Read More »
