For weeks after Christa’s passing my brain seemed to idle on the most awful moments of her battle against the vile disease. Images raged through my mind—Christa coughing, vomiting, or dropping to the floor like a rag doll, lumps of brown hair left on her pillow, bruised veins, a bulging tumor on her neck, her precious arm purple and bloated from a botched transfusion. I could no more stop these memories than I could stop a raging hurricane. read on >>
The tiny eight-year-old was pinned against the gatepost, screaming. His arm, caught up to the shoulder between the post and the opening gate, was twisted at a most unnatural angle. I tried to pull the gate in the opposite direction, but it wouldn't budge. read on >>
Even when I was a little girl, I couldn't understand why women changed their names when they married. Later, when I understood that children received their father’s name and that the entire family had one last name, something still bothered me. read on >>
As I'm cheese-skating out of the aisle, I imagine myself filing a lawsuit against Superstore, hiring an ambulance-chasing lawyer, and even wearing one of those puffy cervical collars as I sorrowfully tell a courtroom how my life was nearly brought to a grinding halt by powdered cheese. read on >>
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Smashing The Moulds - release the bad girl inside of you, discard the good girl straight jacket. Tell us how expectations can be turned inside out and upside down.
Perfect mothers, focused working women, sexy mates--is that what the freest women of this day and age expect themselves to be? How many can cope with such multiple kinds of “goodness”? read on >>
Do I have something stuck between my teeth? Is there a rude notice on my back? I know my skirt isn’t tucked into my knickers because I’m wearing jeans--and a quick check reassures me that my zipper is zipped. So why this outbreak of beaming smiles? read on >>
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PROPHET Issue — September - December 2008
