The WriteAngles Journal

by Joan Axelrod-Contrada Freddy courted me with nature. He took me to Breakheart Reservation in Saugus on a crisp fall day in 1983. “Did you ever notice how the woods smell like cornflakes?” he asked. “No, but I like that.” A breeze blew through my hair, and it felt like happiness. Freddy’s brain worked sideways, […]

by Amy Laprade “You seem like you could use a friend.” His eyes stroked her pale freckled thighs that’d spilled below the frayed hems of her denim shorts. “You know, you could hang here … you know, if you like to party … you could cut school and uh, I got cold beer and uh,

by Mohammad Yadegari It was June 1962. Three years had passed since I had moved to Tehran in accordance with my father’s plan to move the family gradually from Iraq to Iran. Whereas women in Iraq wore heavy veils in public, many of them covering their faces and avoiding talking to anyone who namahram (Any

by D.K. McCutchen My cranky high schooler visits my class during her break. Her friends are away. My college students ignore the newcomer with pointed glances. I want to brag: Mine-mine-mine! So cool in her hand-stitched “Black-Lives-Matter” jacket and eyebrow piercing. My chest feels full. She could easily pass: Tall, telltale red hair hidden under

by Ann C. Averill When I was a little girl, my family ate dinner at 6:30 every night. A meat, a vegetable, a starch, and a homemade dessert like tapioca pudding or apple brown betty. Often my brother and I watched The Early Show from 5:00-7:00 PM featuring movies like Mothra Meets Godzilla. That meant

by Siegfried Haug “Your Manchurian ancestors,” my grandmother said, “when they were lucky enough to come across a flock of turkeys were overjoyed. Positively overjoyed.” She looked up from stirring her pot. It never occurred to me — towheaded southern German farm boy — to question her sketchy family tree. She wiped long-fingered hands on