First-person narratives based on real human experiences. The moments that change us. The relationships that define us. The lessons we carry forward.
By Nadia Cross — My mother kept everything in that Bible. She kept the obituary cards from three funerals, the ones she attended in her... Read more
At 2:47 that Tuesday afternoon, in the fourteenth week since I broke my pelvis and my hip in my own receiving bay, I stood in... Read more
It was my twenty eight week checkup, forty minutes before my ultrasound appointment, when Deputy Trace Boone’s cruiser rolled up my gravel driveway instead of... Read more
Eleven weeks after I watched Lonnie Bratcher’s glove disappear into the jaws of Press Line Three, I sat in a Walmart parking lot in Bremmer,... Read more
The morning Colton Ashby decided to ruin me, there were eleven people in line at my register, and he said it loud enough for every... Read more
The folder was blue. I want to start there, because everyone always asks me what was in the folder, and the truth is the folder... Read more
Forty minutes into my husband’s funeral reception, still in the black dress I had worn to bury him three hours earlier, I opened the little... Read more
Kip Sanderson called me into the office his father built with his own hands and told me the shop needed younger energy, seven days before... Read more
Dennis Kroll had a way of tenting his fingers on the desk before he lied to you, like a man settling in to enjoy himself.... Read more
The first time I understood they meant to take it, I was standing in my own kitchen with a coffee cup going cold in my... Read more