Poverty sometimes leads to frustration, then regret, and later, understanding.
“Put on your shoes. I need you to go to the store for me.”
Ah. Back in the day. Neighborhoods had local grocery stores within walking distance. The streets were reasonably safe. You could have your eight-year-old child walk to
I am an aspiring writer, living and studying in London. I work part-time as a shop assistant, I am writing my first novel and I have big dreams. There’s a certain kind of romance in what I do: I wear a uniform and go to work, meet different kinds of
It is an immeasurable shame to have been branded with something so public, from which you cannot escape.
I wake to a pounding at my bedroom door and my father’s booming voice: "Tell that mother fucker if he wants to show his face around here
We've finally reached a unanimous decision. Not only was this selection a favorite with all three judges, it was a reader favorite and the post with the highest number of views on our site.
The winner of The Flounce Non Fiction Writer’s Award 2015 is Catherine A. Brereton, for her essay
This world has become a scary place lately, hasn’t it? Bombings, shootings, terrorists attacking, lone gunmen making treacherous plans, police brutalizing minorities, internet bullies leaking personal photos -- and that’s just what’s happening in someone else’s neighborhood, if you’re lucky enough that it’s not happening in your own.
I saw my new therapist yesterday. She's a wicked nice 30-something who seems to have her head on straight, and genuinely wants to help in my next stage of therapy work. At this point in my treatment, after several years, I've mostly resolved and closed the books on
One time, not recently but a few months ago, I watched my boyfriend close and lock the door to our apartment. After walking two and a half blocks away from our place, I felt the deep compulsion to go back and check that the door was locked. I fought the
Half my suitcase catches in the wheezing doors of the metro. I panic and pull, while a bot-like female voice urges passengers to step back from the entrances to the trains. The red bulbs blinking adjacent to the tracks blur as I keep tugging. I recall a poster
An eight-year-old girl lays in bed with her covers pulled tight around her chin. She squeezes a bear just as old as she is against her side. Her parents are in the hallway screaming at each other about any and every misdemeanor that had ever occurred in their