Amy Atwood
Alfalfa Go to church with your parents when you’re six years old. Find your grandparents sitting in their usual spot, the same spot where they’ve been sitting s...
Alfalfa Go to church with your parents when you’re six years old. Find your grandparents sitting in their usual spot, the same spot where they’ve been sitting s...
Chelsey Clammer won the 2015 Red Hen Press Nonfiction Manuscript Award for her collection of lyric essays, Circadian. She is a Pushcart Prize-nominated essa...
Believe in Yourself I studied in a school where Morning Prayer in the assembly was compulsory on the grounds where everyone gathered. All rituals followed, we h...
[CREATIVE NONFICTION] An Atheist Talks to Her Children About Death I grew up with a mother who did not believe in God. She was a devout Unitarian, and our Sunda...
Jenny teaches me how to roll a joint behind the chapel, just before our ceremony. We crouch between rows of stalk, swathed in white silk, skirt hems bunche...
“Gimme yo keys ‘fore I waste yo ass.” Deacon Gupton looked terrified. His assailant pressed the gun to his ear, seeming more than willing to blow his old b...
I hate her. She real smart, and she real pretty too. Got that personality that attracts people like magnets.
My earliest memory from church was not my baptism. It didn’t even take place within the rows and rows of hardwood pews. No, we were out in the lobby. The a...
There is a dead mouse beneath me, in the recesses of my cubicle by my trash can. It’s still stuck in the trap, gray-brown and fluffy, tail stiff, limbs spl...
I was at Sherwood Baptist Church when I realized God didn’t exist. I was eight years old, and it was the summer that the AC went out. The air was hot and w...