Ana Vissicchio
Post- Magazine
a century well loved [narrative]
By Ana Vissicchio | December 520 years. In January, it’ll be 21. That feels like a long time, probably because I have nothing longer to compare it to. But this weekend, I came pretty close.
Post- Magazine
echoes of autumn [narrative]
By Ana Vissicchio | November 13I try to catch myself. As the autumn leaves start to fall, sometimes it feels like I do too.
Post- Magazine
living with friends [narrative]
By Ana Vissicchio | October 9Lately, I’ve had a lot of those mornings that when I wake up, time just stretches, and I feel gelatinous. Like Jell-O. I’ve had more of them than I can count. I greet these viscous mornings with a groggy head and eyes that won’t open beyond halfway. A blindingly bright alarm clock mocks me. It’s ...
Post- Magazine
spooled [narrative]
By Ana Vissicchio | March 13Sun streams in through the dirty windshield of my green Subaru. I prop up my knee as I drive, and if my mother saw me, she’d be upset. But you are the one in the passenger seat next to me, twiddling with my phone to pick a song on our nine-minute drive to Michael’s.
Post- Magazine
from the kitchen table [narrative]
By Ana Vissicchio | February 21My feet swing under the chipped wooden table. I soak in the smell of sizzling tomato sauce. My grandmother’s hands—soft from Pond’s hand lotion but aged from years of hot oil splashes—are a blur. I watch her float from oven to stove, guiding raw ingredients into a meal. Unwashed vegetables, ...
Post- Magazine
whispered memories of home [narrative]
By Ana Vissicchio | November 8In the corner of the patch of land I call home there used to sit a treehouse. The funny thing about this treehouse is that it was never in a tree at all. It was a small wooden shed, perched atop nothing but solid ground.
Post- Magazine
rippling [A&C]
By Ana Vissicchio | November 1The trumpeter swan pokes his nose through the water’s surface. Staring back at him, a wavering mirror radiates from his small, pointed beak. As he takes one step in, ripples ricochet from his thin legs to the tip of the shore. He delicately situates himself on top of the surface, admiring the dancing ...
