The Furious Gazelle

Literary as hell.

Category: Essay (page 2 of 4)

“After the Battle,” an essay by Robert Joe Stout

Continue reading

“Her Trauma, My Silence,” by Alyssa Matesic

Two days after it happened, my best friend told me she was eighty percent sure she was drugged and raped at her hostel in Panama.

We both willed her to be wrong, but there was the blood in her underwear, the sick feeling in her head the morning after a night she couldn’t remember, the slow piecing together of half-memories. There was the fear, bone-deep, that overwhelmed her when she locked eyes with a man who resembled one of her rapists. Her instinct told her that her body had been violated. We both trusted it, because this wasn’t the first time.

Continue reading

“Senior Year,” an essay by G.S. Payne

Continue reading

“Country Road,” an essay by Susan Richardson

 
Continue reading

“A Swarm of My Own,” an essay by Leslie Hall

O, the bee drama.

Yesterday I took the day off work. It was supposed to be the day I painted my beehive in preparation for a swarm. Last month, when I was taking a beekeeping class, I had put my name on a swarm list. The swarm list is a list of local beekeepers who want to take custody of a colony that’s gone rogue.

“Gone rogue” is my paraphrase. There are a variety of reasons that bees might up and depart from a hive—this group of bees on the move is called a swarm—to seek a new home.

Continue reading

“Compulsion,” an essay by Lily Beaumont

Sometimes I wake up slowly, sloughing off layers of sleep one at a time. On those days, there’s a witching moment where I float, suspended, on the crest of consciousness. My thoughts and feelings run on as normal, but no one’s in the driver’s seat.

 

Then, half a second behind, comes the tickle in the back of my mind—the nagging sense of unease. The sense that something is wrong. And that’s when I remember who I am, and what I fear, and the dread settles in my veins like cement.

 

I get up, and the dread rises with me. I go running, and imagine sweating the anxiety out. I shower, and the fear still clings, thick and oily, to my skin.

Continue reading

“The Other Side of the Story” by Darlene Patrick

Continue reading

“The Test” by Sue Granzella

The urologist’s nurse shot me a quizzical look. That should have been my first clue. I guess I looked too happy.

“You know what you’re here for, right?”

“For a baseline on my bladder?”

Months earlier, I’d been shocked by a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis. On my initial visits to the neurologist, cold dread had gripped my insides, squeezing the breath out of me in the waiting room as I moved chairs aside for patients in wheelchairs. I told myself to smile and make eye contact with them. Was I looking at my future self?

With time, I’d adjusted, and that day, I was feeling more upbeat than terrified. Bladder problems are common with MS, and since mine had misbehaved in the past, the neurologist had ordered this exam. I felt strong, though, and eager to receive a glowing report. I’d always excelled on tests. If confidence and determination could influence performance, my bladder might pass.     Continue reading

“What’s in a Name?” by Tim Eberle

It has been said that art represents humanity’s collective attempt to reconcile its own existence against an otherwise cold and uncaring universe. To strip away artifice, to obliterate pretense — to provide a context through which we may hope to define, at its core, exactly what it means to be a person. Which explains why art is so often heartbreakingly, unyieldingly, sad. Because, loath as we may be to admit it (and despite all of our attempts to the contrary), ours is a conclusively lonely existence — one fraught with sorrow, doubt, and, ultimately, disillusionment. That’s the torment heard in Juliet’s deathbed soliloquy, the longing behind the chords of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah,” the anguished panic pulsating through Edvard Munch’s “The Scream.” And that’s the reason why, every Spring, I make sure to stock up on extra-soft, triple-ply, Kleenex-brand tissues in anticipation of the season’s most gut-wrenchingly devastating artistic offering: the premier episode of the ABC network’s hit reality television series “The Bachelorette.”

Continue reading

“Mrs. Fubbs’ Front Parlor,” by Caitlin Allgood

I tend to pick at things.

I pick at scabs.

I pick at boogers.

I pick at my husband’s inability to clean the toilet with anything other than a one-ply square of toilet paper and some spit.

I pick at other people’s opinions.

I pick at my own opinions.

I pick at myself.

 
Continue reading

Older posts Newer posts

© 2018 The Furious Gazelle

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑