Author: April Pickle

When the rugs of ritual and routine get pulled and ripped from under our feet, when what we thought we could depend on isn’t reliable, when what was

Our little church on the Mississippi coast didn’t have a baptistry. Sometimes folks got baptized in the swimming pool at the apartment complex down the street. Other times

When I was in the eleventh grade, the KKK held a parade, and I watched as it went by. This was 1987, and the town was Texarkana. There

Jacob dreamed of a ladder that stretched from earth to heaven. I’ve been dreaming of a spiral staircase that goes from the main floor to the attic. Years

“Do yourself a favor and take two Advil before you get there,” a friend said. And I laughed, even though it wasn’t funny. Sometimes I laugh to keep

Puddles don’t form when I water the rose bushes. The stream runs straight down. I take a walk, stepping over cracks, some of them as wide as my