Please turn JavaScript on
brevitymag icon

brevitymag

Want to keep yourself up to date with the latest news from Brevitymag?

Subscribe using the "Follow" button below and we provide you with customized updates, via topic or tag, that get delivered to your email address, your smartphone or on your dedicated news page on follow.it.

You can unsubscribe at any time painlessly.

Title of Brevitymag: "Brevity: A Journal of Concise Literary Nonfiction | Brevity: The journal devoted exclusively to the concise literary nonfiction."

Is this your feed? Claim it!

Publisher:  Unclaimed!
Message frequency:  0.58 / day

Message History

At eleven years old, I knew how to hold my own bag. I knew how to stay close to my parents. I knew how to listen without understanding, how not to cry when adults spoke over my head in a language that moved too fast. My family of nine had crossed the South China Sea on a wooden fishing boat and entered a country still bleeding from a war it was desperate to forget. We arrived wi...

Read full story
Like a snowman, one of my twins suggests—looping first around the cracked basketball court and playground equipment, then the large parking lot where caregivers line up early, some in pickups, some in indistinguishable SUVs, one in a Cybertruck. Adults fall into phones as they wait to collect their middle schoolers

Read full story
“I hope you don’t mind,” she says. “I went ahead and added this floral embellishment.” Ellen runs her fingers, nails painted pale pink, over the silicone-studded band that will keep my custom compression garment snug around my right thigh. Ellen is my new garment fitter. She parts her hair and color-coordinates her outfits the way professional, confident women do. Her shoes matc...

Read full story
The cow’s been sick for three days, like nothing I have ever seen before. Standing in the yard, heaving. A violent rhythm. Like when you’re so sick your body fights to empty the stomach, only her chest is covered in froth, new and virgin-white, not bile. And her mouth hangs open, mucus from her nose running into it. And her moaning is low, not painful, as if she’s somewhere else...

Read full story
In Moscow, everyone disappears in winter. By November the city is a procession of dark wool and fur-lined hoods. Bodies thicken into silhouettes. Shoulders square under padding. Necks vanish. You can’t tell who is soft, who is angular, who is young, who is older than they look. The cold flattens us into outlines. I bought my coat at a market near Belorusskaya Station: navy, calf...

Read full story