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Sexual Violence

Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

The Lovely Harry, Philip Larkin, And Me

At the end of our weekly sessions, as I’m about to walk out the door, I hand The Lovely Harry a manila envelope of poems I’ve written that week. Some weeks it’s a thin envelope; other weeks the pages inside push against the seams with their folded energy.

By Paula Harris April 2021
Fiction

The Children Are Fragile

It was after this, in the three or four weeks before she stopped coming to class entirely, that Sheila started bringing in the Murder Plays.

By Jen Silverman March 2021
Fiction

Firebirds

After barre, Mme. Francesca follows me to the locker room and tells me I’m officially going to the Cupids dance program this summer and I just can’t stand it.

By Alysandra Dutton July 2020
The Sun Interview

The World We Still Have

Barry Lopez On Restoring Our Lost Intimacy With Nature

One of the reasons we’re lonely . . . is that we’ve cut ourselves off from the nonhuman world, and have called this “progress.”

By Fred Bahnson December 2019
Fiction

Stories We Tell Now

We’ve all heard there was drinking, that the parents weren’t home, that the house was huge, full of places for disappearing. And when the girl pressed charges a week later, the boy was incredulous, and his parents were ready to put up a fight.

By Jennifer Swift September 2019
Readers Write

Childhood

Flunking a driver’s test, frightening a bully, grown up at fourteen

By Our Readers August 2019
Fiction

The Only One She Told

You had the face of a man who couldn’t help understanding everything — all of it, the whole pathetic, tragic human thing — and that draws people in. To me you were a magnet of kindness.

By J.E. McCafferty January 2019
Fiction

Nice Girls

I used to feel like an imposter because of my breasts, because even before I got pregnant they were pretty spectacular, and it’s made me wonder if I’ve ever actually earned anything, or if all the jobs and awards and opportunities I’ve gotten, really, have just been handed to me because of fat deposits that would be disgusting if they were placed a few inches lower, on my belly.

By Bridget Adams September 2018
Fiction

Waiting For My Rape

This man could have been my rapist, but he looked too nice. He had thick, wavy hair, like a movie star from the seventies, and a jawbone that could take out your eye. I hung my feet over the edge of the roof and let myself slide into his arms.

By Jessica Anya Blau August 2018
Essays, Memoirs, and True Stories

The Feminist Club

We experience two kinds of violence: the violence done to us by others, and the violence we do to ourselves. The latter hurts more, because it’s of our own making.

By Maggie Cheatham June 2018