Nonfiction: The Cellist by Kendra Stanton Lee
Clara Schumann bore humans and great works of art. My childbearing years are over and I hope the same is not true for me of teaching.
Clara Schumann bore humans and great works of art. My childbearing years are over and I hope the same is not true for me of teaching.
If men stare at him while he pees, it’s because they’re checking his credentials.
The changes in our trailer make me forget that I was always afraid before my cousins came.
We all knew we were broken.
I could not see beyond the horizon, during those youthful summers, to what will confront me in the future.
Every writer has to find perspective on—and an appropriate position in—the narrative they want to recount.
But a room with a bed at its center would attach certain words to what we had, words we weren’t ready to claim.
“White expats like to say there are three types of us in Africa: missionaries, mercenaries, and misfits. I was, obviously, the misfit.”
The insults piled on top of each other like a chain of cars crashing at high speed.
The word “narcissist” gets bandied about to explain personality traits from the benign to the sociopathic.