My Mother's House
By: Alexa Wolf
I think of the times my mother might have died and didn't: when she dropped unbatlike from the steel bar across the top of her bedroom door and hit her shoulder on the floor; when the neighbor caught her as she lost her balance on the small dirt path to her walkway, halting her backward fall toward the sidewalk cement; when the drive-by shooting missed her; when she escaped the couple who wanted her to get into their truck; when her car broke down, as it seemed to do every other month and always at night, and countless, kind people stopped to help her and make sure she got home safely. Read more.

The Glass Castle
By: Jeannette Walls
We were always doing the skedaddle, usually in the middle of the night. I sometimes heard Mom and Dad discussing the people who were after us. Dad called them henchmen, bloodsuckers, and the gestapo. Sometimes he would make mysterious references to executives from Standard Oil who were trying to steal the Texas land that mom's family owned, and FBI agents who were after dad for some dark episode that he never told us about because he didn't want to put us in danger, too. Read more.

Reflections: Personalizing Life, Nature, Man and God
By: Radenko Fanuka
America was, America is, America will always be a red tulip in my heart. It was the year 1947, and the first time I spoke to a man who walked on American soil. In his old days, he returned to his old nest, just like the birds who fly home. He recounted a remarkably beautiful story throughout our town about the beautiful American way of life. Read more.

Electroboy
By: Andy Behrman
I'm lying on a gurney in the operating room at Gracie Square Hospital. I feel as if I'm waiting for either the scariest roller-coaster ride of my life or my own execution. I'm convinced that if I live, my brain will be reduced to a blank Rolodex. I look down at my bare feet. A flawless loafer tan line. Maybe I'll die wearing flesh-tone loafers. Read more.