A shadowed mass stumbled out of the reeds. A skunk, pawing at nothing in particular, winced at the sun and shook unsteadily under its own weight. Rocco, always playful, nosed the creature while dancing around the dazed animal.
When an audience is presented with narratives in which women acknowledge their individuality over their motherhood, or even choose not to have children, it becomes difficult to separate a protagonist’s character flaws from their attempt at achieving a greater happiness.
I can safely sit here, two days after turning 20, and tell you that you will be okay. You aren’t sure that you’re even going to make it to see yourself graduate high school--let alone make it through the pandemic that’s coming--but please believe me when I say that you will.
When I began my time at an early twentieth-century historic house museum, I was expecting to find a lot of things—furniture, yellowing diaries, shelves and shelves of vintage clothes—but I never imagined I would find my grandmother.
Tom Casey’s letters from Vietnam are not merely a historical artifact, but a bildungsroman, the story of a man discovering the limits of his duty and the faults of his country.
There’s stillness: the whispers of trees and soft winds that make them heard. They’re talking to us; we’ve come to listen. Plantations are vast, empty, filled with invisible souls and their all-too-audible cries; these acres are not that.