A flash memoir by Susan Rukeyser
By twelve-years-old, my legs were too long. I was taller than the boys, so I slouched because girls should be small, I was told. Petite, waiflike, a pocket Venus, the girl shorter than the boy, even if she must bend her knees or wear flats when she wants to stilt-walk. In high school, the cutest, tiniest cheerleader was thrown into the air as if weightless, as if nothing, and oh how I wished I was small enough to be thrown around, how I wished to be less.
a mother’s love
An essay by K.B. Holzman
Sunday night my mother washed my hair. I stood on a stool at the kitchen sink wearing a large plastic bib with short sleeves as she adjusted the tap water, playing with the hot and cold spigots. When the temperature was right, she told me to bend over and used the spray nozzle to saturate my mousy brown hair, separating the strands with her fingers. Because I had dandruff, she scrubbed my scalp with a tar-based blue shampoo that smelled like the garage floor, medicating every inch of my scalp and rinsing thoroughly before she reapplied the shampoo. Rinsed again.
my right (of passage)
A novel excerpt by C.E. Hoffman
To shave or not to shave -- that is the question.
To wax or not to wax? So is my predicament.
After all, I’m happy enough as a shooter girl, and shooter girls can keep whatever secret they want behind their panties.
A short story by Tia Christoffersen
“Women don’t grow hair there!” my roommate squeals at her boyfriend in response to his thoughtful inquiry: “Do you shave your feet?” They’re standing close to one another in the kitchen while I slouch on the sofa, elbow deep in a family sized bag of nacho chips. I look at her from beneath a raised brow, wondering if she’s lying out of fear that he might find her less attractive. Judging by the number of times I’ve seen him breathe down her neck before asking if she wants to go “fold laundry,” his sex drive is not a problem.