The WriteAngles Journal

AUTHOR’S NOTE: The following is my attempt to capture the voice of my late uncle, who suffered from Cerebral Palsy in the 20th century. I was born in Delaware on January, 1936, a winter of lingering Depression, Hitler’s bullish expansion, and King Edward’s wise abdication for Miss Wallis. Such a beauty! My older parents, who […]

My mother’s coffin closed, copper like a tea kettle. My aunt whispers, is this where we leave her, but more as a statement. I reply, yes, but more a question.   *Author’s note: The title references the song by Mike + the Mechanics (1989). The song alludes to memory and descendants as extending the reach

When the whooping crane comes to visit me with its smokey feathers and nimble legs it melts the edges of my grief into Holy seawater Illness has unraveled my life made me question everything I thought I knew not like this graceful crane who is sure of itself performing the ritual of a dancer’s plié

The blind lead the blinded along broken streets of what is left. Some say this is new territory. Others say it is the same old, same old fight over territory again. Bombs drop. Tears. It rains for days. A young girl (maybe Palestinian, maybe Israeli) tells all about having lost her one good eye. Half

By Constance Emmett After my children left home, I felt such relief. They’d filled my small house, taken up every square inch, but now I have it all to myself. In the heat of the day there’s no bird song in my garden, just the sound of the wind. Two weeks ago, as I deadheaded

By Roxanne E. Bogart I step outside to find the color of my day beyond yellow or red or blue science matters but it’s not the end game for it’s the heart and gut that throb us into action and that’s when I sense what has been calling— wild voices beyond power: aspen leaves hushing

By Carlo Morrissey I know little about my father A man who remained as strong as the steel He molded in furnaces whose heat rivaled hell Who could drink all day, party all night A man’s man who grew up fast Leaving home not more than a boy For conservation camps clearing Vermont forests Boxing

By Anita Pappas-Raposa The day I began to sort out and discard Andy’s notes was a heartstopper. into the basement I went, recycling bin in hand and began to sift through drawers, years of yellow legal pads, large, lined index cards, typed manuscripts, journals and bound essays. They were undisturbed, handwritten years of research all

By Sue Dutch Over the summer, Mr. Miller gave our 9th grade class an assignment; collect at least 50 different types of insects, then mount each insect with a pin displaying them in a homemade case. The Latin name should appear, typed and mounted, under each insect. The due date was the end of October. 

By Vati Sreiberg, The woman is greeted by silence where there should be song, stillness where there is always movement, allowing her imagination to generate dread. She walks cautiously into her garden, the green tips of daffodils everywhere testing the air as the shadows of winter dissipate and the last of the icy snow melts away;