My mother broke every plate in the house that day. She had destroyed the plastic plates first, each artificial disk severed before meeting the kitchen floor. She had taken the paper plates too, ripping them with her delicate hands until they had reached the floor, a despondent end to the lively meals that they had...
Loneliness sucks. Understatement of the year? Perhaps, but I’m letting my inner poet take the day off. So much art has been dedicated to loneliness, so I’m not going to wax poetic about the soul sucking emptiness of loneliness, though I could easily do so all day.
I am not guaranteed a lifetime, only time. I move through the world and space unwillingly. If you wish to see the planet as I have, or as I do, you are foolish.
Trigger Warnings: attempted suicide, abusive family reference
Katie Coyle’s Vivian Apple at the End of the World is a brazen jolt of maturity that still manages to hold all the soul and sweetness of great young adult fiction.
The tyrannical heat of the summer wafted through Eden’s windows and seeped into her bed sheets. She felt the adherence of the silk on her legs and little trails of sweat raced across her neck, mingling the aromatic smell of her hair with a salty sharpness.
There was a slight wind on the dock. It ripped at the lake water and tousled the tall grass surrounding the beach in small waves. Each stem flickered back and forth, like an uneasy light that had been exercised for many years.
It was a Wednesday night when clouds began to gather, thin and brittle as cheap glass. The town was used to strangers rolling through, dust weeds pushed along by the wind. The Roadhouse sheltered many, offering them whiskey and chili fries and a roof over their heads, but just for one night. It hadn’t...