By Jessie Kate
“I need you to go through this box of photos and cut them up. Make sure to slice through the nipples so people can’t decipher them. Okay? Cut in diagonal strips. Throw some pieces in this trashcan, and some in this one. Got it?”
I pulled back the cardboard flaps to find hundreds of Polaroid shots of breasts. The boobs were asymmetrical. They were discolored. There were inverted nipples. And then there were hundreds of beautiful, round and perfectly shaped bosoms too. I never knew boobs came in such variety.
The first couple Polaroids were fun to snip and snap into little pieces. But the scissors were dull and my hands began to hurt as my eyes began to blur. Nipples. Side boob. Little boob. Big boob. Missing boob. I couldn’t get through the whole box in one day. I had to stop after several hours, my hands cut up from the sharp plastic edges as I tried to snip each nipple into oblivion. Continue reading
By Emily Jean
The other day I fell in love with a dress I knew I couldn’t afford on one of the overwhelmingly delicious racks at Urban Outfitters. And after experiencing the back and forth battles of joy versus angst and I-Cant-Live-Without-This versus Broke-Ass-College-Kid, I realized that the dress represented more than just floral, cotton, and my entire paycheck. It represented a Friday night on a beautiful peninsula in Middle-of-Nowhere, MO. The dress represented too many posey photographs taken in front of the mural outside the dining hall, hairy Shabbos chicken and dry chocolate cake, checking for daddy long legs on the chapel benches at services before returning to sitting after the Mourner’s Kaddish, and lots and lots of clapping, dancing, and cheering out random words in Yiddish. Camp’s Shabbat was all up in that dress, because plainly and simply, thoughts of camp are always all up in my mind.
By Michael Gutgsell
This month I am starting my fourth year in Chicago. I came to this city with big hopes that I would be able to leave behind part-time minimum wage work and the naive belief that an internship would open doors for me. I came to Chicago educated, hard-working, and excited for my new life.
I showed up at the refugee resettlement agency believing I was to be an assistant English instructor to adult refugees. Instead, after having me shadow all of three classes (in which the instructor read directly from a worksheet and had the students repeat after him for three hours), I was given control of an entire class for the rest of the year. Continue reading
By Amber Robbin
“They’re at it again.”
“The hussies upstairs.”
“Oh, is that what they’re calling them now?”
“No, they say worse things. That’s what I’M calling them,” she said, flashing her classic Cheshire grin.
“You are aware, I work upstairs?” Continue reading
By Sydney Maier
It was mid-February. I spent a few minutes trying to decide whether I was dying of heat stroke from the noon day sun pressing right in my face, or simply from boredom.
I had, as always, completed my day’s worth of tasks in about seven minutes: check the messages (none); check my email (none); take the ‘closed’ sign off the door. Each hour was a week, which meant today was five weeks long. The thought was exhausting. Continue reading