Vanishing Acts

Walter Bowne

For ten weeks last spring, I drove my daughter Madeline down to Elmer, New Jersey, for Saturday morning art classes.

Visiting Day

Tim O’Connell

One Sunday a month I go to prison, the Federal Detention Center (FDC) located a few blocks north and west of Independence Hall.

The Count of Three

Kristina Moriconi

On Saturdays, we folded paper boats. With his sleeves rolled, he stood beside the pond creasing triangles, corner to corner, his reflection rippling in the water

Night Diving

Sean Finucane Toner

No wheels, no license, no ability to drive – I’m a little hesitant, a little ashamed.

The Baby

Sylvie Beauvais

As I turn 38 and keep stocking drawers full of dreams and half-completed projects, I’m pushing forward with one big initiative: I’m having an imaginary baby. Why not?

Whore Tie

Elaine Paliatsas-Haughey

My grandfather’s name was Efthimios Vasilios Patouhas, but I called him Papa. As a toddler I could only manage to spurt out the first syllable of the Greek word for grandfather, pappou. The repeated pa, pa, pa eventually became Papa.

The Baby

Sylvie Beauvais

As I turn 38 and keep stocking drawers full of dreams and half-completed projects, I’m pushing forward with one big initiative: I’m having an imaginary baby. Why not?

Bunker

Jonathan Kemmerer-Scovner

People were huddled in their offices, whispering. They glanced up with intense faces, returned to private conversation.

This is it, I knew. It’s happening today