The WriteAngles Journal

Editor’s Note: The Tree House at Rolling Hills is a condo complex in Lenox where the author goes to write every winter. The condo’s owners call it their tree house because it’s on the second floor, and the sliding glass doors face the woods. by Betsy Smith They have filled it with treasures and art […]

  by Wanda Fischer My grandmother did not bake cookies. She didn’t wear a white apron and read stories to my sisters and me. My grandmother was a resident of the state hospital for the mentally ill in Jamaica Plain, Massachusetts. She was committed in 1940, when my mother, the youngest of her four children,

by Steve Bernstein 10/14/15, Amazon purchase: Family Life by Akhil Sharma, Kindle $9.14 We were on call for both moms 24/7. One of the remaining joys my partner and I shared was reading a book together in bed. She read aloud. I nodded off. Dodger lay between us, snoring and chasing squirrels in his dreams.

By Tsultrim Dolma I was born in the late 1960s in a small village in eastern Tibet. From a small age, I heard and saw that our town officials did not treat their own villagers well. It made no sense to me. Why were they punishing their people who had done nothing wrong? I didn’t

By Joan Axelrod-Contrada My husband, Fred, banged on the wooden gate blocking off the stairs. “What do you need?” I asked. “My nail clippers,” he said. I rushed upstairs, then heard a noise that made me cringe. A chair dragged across the floor. No, not again. I found Fred with one foot on a wooden

By Opal Gayle My father did not know how to read so he traveled the world with his ears, nose, and bones. His bones, he said, told him when it was going to rain. His nose told him what was in the tiny phials that he bought for his clandestine healing missions. And, at his

By Richard Wayne Horton Pulling into my driveway I saw the ambulance next door. Med guys rolled Tom out. Oh, no! No more Thursday card games. We helped the widow in the next few days. I mowed the lawn over there. Feeling very sorry for the widow, we drove her out to the lake for

By Diane Kane “Jeff and I are getting a divorce.” “But why?” I asked. “Mom, it’s complicated.” “Can’t you work it out?” “We’ve tried,” Shannon said. “There’s no other solution.” I grieved over twelve years of marriage and two children, broken. What could I do? There was no room for my pain. After all, it