This winter, we are pleased to present a “Best of Ducts” issue!
2017 will mark our eighteenth year in the world of online litmags and it’s an exciting one for us. With the help of our amazing community of readers and supporters, we just launched our brand-new, redesigned website, and we aren’t stopping there. Our second decade is only issues away, and with this in mind, we are in the midst of reorganizing and revamping our publication, as well as formally incorporating into a new nonprofit that will support the next generation of personal narrative.
Our next issue of new content will launch in Summer 2017, but in the meantime, we hope you’ll enjoy this look back on some highlights from our past decade.
November 25, 2016
Table of Contents
I wasn’t always a bad kid. Sure, I was a little anti-social and my penchant for wild bursts of Disco dancing made me a very lonely 3rd grader.
We are making order out of chaos by being diligent, dedicated, and open to sharing with each other. We are both “piecing” and “peacing” communities back together.
“The work of our lives will never be done, but it will end.”
Into such an India I am born. As the firstborn daughter, I enjoy an enviable position in the family and am subject to huge amounts of pampering.
It stretched its body from the roof of the cage to kiss her back as if the two were lovers.
To me, being a slut meant being promiscuous, and being promiscuous meant being desirable, and being desirable meant being powerful.
Her former husband was a good man, and she had screwed up the marriage.
“I got to tell ya Jimmy Jam, you really outdid yourself this time."
Begin with this: You have never been to Cedar Rapids.
Every dog must have his day and every pup his pedigree.
I’ll watch anything with a Real Housewife in it.
I say this with no pride and little understanding. I have no preferences.
This is how you find your son who was hitchhiking home for spring break to surprise you and now he calls you because he and two friends are stranded in a deserted place called Pine Island and it’s getting dark.
"Oh, please. You're Andy Warhol. Let's have dinner, okay?"
We consume what we must, to make it up.
In this neighborhood, tact never stood a chance.
My father walks through the scrub, a shortcut, to get to Walmart
where he meets up with his friends for coffee on Friday afternoons.
. . . there's no doubt about it,
it's pure naiad scorn.
This morning the world tried its best to tuck me back in.