Lit Creative Nonfiction

My skin bakes beneath my clothes. Dusty dry ground crackles beneath our feet. There is a low humming of bugs, and I know that...

At the time, I was introduced to most of the books I knew by my grandfather. On days when his back ached, he would...

9:46AM For a Quiet Carriage there is a surprising number of yobs behind me, chattering and screeching away like a family of chimps. From what...

Warning: graphic content. This is a true story about the most traumatic thing that has happened in my life. Even though I have suffered the...

The first year I was asked, I was in fifth grade. A good friend of mine had told me minutes earlier that she hoped...

I didn't begin piano for pleasure. In fifth grade, math was my nemesis, an unremitting struggle. I felt myself a free spirit, not to...

I have always been the hoarder of the family. Picture a room with nametags from 2nd grade, a variety of pens and pencils, schoolwork that...

You might be able to guess from my glasses and general bookishness that I would be bad at socializing. You’d be right. Sometimes these...

The National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh wasn’t prepared for us, for three teenagers drunk on the freedom of a day without planned activities...

The first day of my junior year was September 6, 1989. I walked into room 404 for my first Creative Writing class. I had...