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'I Say I Am Going Upstairs to Write, but Instead I Lie in Bed, First Masturbating, Then Sleeping' by Krys Malcolm Belc

On January 1, I read an article in the paper about a millennial ice cream maker from Magadan, Russia, a city with subzero average temperatures more than half the year. It has been nearly fifty degrees every day this week, I wrote in my notebook.This is not winter. I did not like this warm Philadelphia winter. I fantasized that day about moving back to the frigid small town where we lived for three years, where my children ate ice cream cones at the local stand in their puffy jackets and their hats and mittens. Feelings of wanting to leave Magadan, the article’s author wrote, are so profound that a local sociologist identified many people there as suffering from “a psychological condition that detaches inhabitants’ hopes and ambitions from their current life and punts them into the future.”
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'Hivesong' by Lindy Biller

There was no chance I could be pregnant, literally none, but when the doctor said pregnancy would explain my symptoms—tender breasts, dizziness, the inability to stomach anything except water crackers and wildflower honey—I agreed to a test. What harm could it do? My doctor had pinkish cheeks and hair like milkweed, fleecy white tufts. The softness of her face made the dislike in her eyes more piercing. “Don’t worry,” she said, showing me the test results. “You have options.”
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'Door' by Maya Nordine

I’ve given this thing some thought. I’m decided. I’d like to have a daughter. Something precious, bundled, with pudgy legs curled in my embrace. Red tufts fluffed wild around a face, lit as if God exists only to shine one perfect beam down upon her. I know what I said before. About children. That there is such thing as too much. Too many precious things, clumsily wobbling, one baby shoe in front of the other.
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'Tuesday Night Book Club' by Kim Magowan

They say Yale and Swarthmore, the colleges their kids will tour; they say Varsity tennis. Their “problems” with kids are It’s so awkward to hear Tallulah having sex with her boyfriend of one year, but at least they’re somewhere safe, or When will Max do his own laundry? When will we talk about the damn novel? The weeping mother stitching her son’s shroud? I drink too much. I stuff my mouth with carrot cake, so I won’t say cutting or OxyContin or I’m researching Wilderness programs, I’m terrified, please help, or you morons have no fucking clue what problems are.
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