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On a darkened street in Prague, an older man assaults a younger woman, while an American teacher–safe in her apartment above–watches from the window. More than a decade later, Megan Stielstra remembers, interrogating accountability, time and language.
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For the first few months after my son was born, I called him The Baby, or sometimes just Him with a capital H, huge proper nouns to illustrate how completely he took over my life. Is he eating, not eating? Pooping, not pooping? What color is the poop, how long ago was the poop, did […]
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I’m writing on the bathroom floor, laptop on my knees. It’s tight in here; shower, toilet, and sink crammed together with just enough space left to stand, or in my case, sit
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