Post- Magazine Narrative
spooled [narrative]
By Ana Vissicchio | March 13Sun streams in through the dirty windshield of my green Subaru. I prop up my knee as I drive, and if my mother saw me, she’d be upset. But you are the one in the passenger seat next to me, twiddling with my phone to pick a song on our nine-minute drive to Michael’s.
saving it for a rainy day [narrative]
By Jeanine Kim | March 6I used to think rain wasn't real. Growing up in Los Angeles, famous for its year-long summer, a rainy day was a special occasion. Rain sparked a butterfly effect with far-ranging consequences—from causing distressed drivers to lose all coordination to inspiring elated jubilation from all the young ...
the first snow [narrative]
By Lynn Nguyen | March 6I make a precise fold in half. I repeat with the same scrutiny, the same exactness, the same force, again and again. With a pair of safety scissors whose unused blades glimmer in my intent eyes, I calculate a snippet of the corner: Four thin, white triangles swirl down into my lap. Another cut at the ...
leap year meditations [narrative]
By Elijah Puente , Katheryne Gonzalez , Tabitha Lynn , Joe Maffa and Klara Davidson Schmich | February 28next chapters
Latest stories
from the kitchen table [narrative]
By Ana Vissicchio | February 21My feet swing under the chipped wooden table. I soak in the smell of sizzling tomato sauce. My grandmother’s hands—soft from Pond’s hand lotion but aged from years of hot oil splashes—are a blur. I watch her float from oven to stove, guiding raw ingredients into a meal. Unwashed vegetables, ...
n + 2 reasons i love you [narrative]
By Ellie Jurmann | February 15Dearest Mathematics,
there is nowhere to do it in new york [narrative]
By Kimberly Liu | December 6Sitting in the art-deco-meets-botanica Domain Café (understood to be the Andrews of downtown Manhattan, given the prevalence of Asian-inspired food options), I feel exhausted. A frontal lobe headache is developing, and my eyes just can’t seem to adjust to the light. This is partly because I got up ...
worthy of love [narrative]
By Gabrielle Yuan | December 6There are not many things in this world that I, with time, cannot overcome. If it’s a homework assignment, I can escape the all-consuming mindset that one assignment will affect the trajectory of my career. If it’s a disagreement among friends, I can find ways to view multiple perspectives, finding ...
friends in high-five places [narrative]
By Ellie Jurmann | November 30If there’s one thing to know about me, it’s that there are actually eleven (and counting): Paul Ryan, Frederick, Stacey-Maurice, Jerry, Bridgette, Gordo, Deena, Milo-Jordan, Billy Joel (a.k.a. Ol’ Bluegrass), Dickens, and Bixby. These little guys are my whole world, and they fit in the palms of ...
the unbearable weight of thanksgiving (meals) [narrative]
By Jeanine Kim | November 29The table is set. A pristine tablecloth is laid—only the faintest of creases as evidence of usual irrelevance, when it sits forgotten and folded in a tiny cabinet high up in the kitchen. Further decorating the table is a feast. A true cornucopia. Filled with meats, carbs, and vegetables. It’s a ...
playing home [narrative]
By Liza Kolbasov | November 15My mother’s childhood was full of plants made into toys. The last time I was in Moscow—11 years ago now, the memories are growing rusty—she shared them with me, introducing me to the many plants that could become playthings, even in a big city. There were the “touch-me-not” plants, “nedotroga,” ...
triptych of bathroom haircuts [narrative]
By Emily Tom | November 15In one of my earliest memories I’m sitting on the lid of the toilet, wearing pajamas, a trash can between my feet. My mother is holding scissors as if she has just discovered what they are. She is a woman of many talents, but cutting hair is not one of them. Still, I let her try. Over and over, I ...
whispered memories of home [narrative]
By Ana Vissicchio | November 8In the corner of the patch of land I call home there used to sit a treehouse. The funny thing about this treehouse is that it was never in a tree at all. It was a small wooden shed, perched atop nothing but solid ground.
me, myself, and i do [narrative]
By Ellie Jurmann | November 1I am single, and I am married. While seemingly paradoxical, both of these things are true. There is no husband, nor a spouse to whom I am married. I alone comprise the happy couple.