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Joanna Kadish Joanna Kadish

Other Writing


Birthing Twins

Literary Orphans Journal, December 2015

Having a C-section unmoored me, sent me reeling. Weakened by the physical necessities of birth, the raw, barbaric blood and ooze, the hurt where the staples nailed my stomach together, I found it physically difficult to care for my newborn twins, although I did what I had to do.

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Terminal

Cultured Vultures, November 2015

My five year old twin boys, identical to the exact placement of a tiny mole on their backs, sat watching an animated television show about a sponge called Bob who lived on the bottom of the ocean. Then Aaron changed the channel to a wild, shoot-em up show. Both boys moved to the edge of their seats, listening eagerly.

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Betrayal

The Citron Review, September 2015

I walked in on them unaware. If I had known, I might have taken greater care to be quiet, or perhaps I might have simply peeked in and driven away without letting on that I saw them together in flagrante delicto as my literature professor would have delicately put it. But no, as luck would have it, I burst through the door, eager to tell David the happy news. What I saw made me stop, my lips quivering from shock.

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Swinging Ain't Easy, People

Nerve, August 2015

Dave wrote that he and his wife had a swing in their bedroom and a whip made of feathers and assorted other toys from glass dildos to hot wax. They had been swapping partners since their college days, 20 years ago, which intrigued us. Brian and I had been swinging less than a year.

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Zulily: Not Exactly Child's Play

Seattle Business Magazine, April 2015

Farida Roberts sits in the lobby of Zulily’s Seattle headquarters sipping her coffee. On the other side of a glass wall, her four children scamper through a clutter of clothing, toys and scene settings as they wait to model clothes for the popular online retailer of moms’ and kids’ fashions.

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"Jail"—Excerpt from Graffiti Planet

Logophile Magazine

Micah Isakson moved restlessly on the thin pad, but nothing could ease the hardness of the metal bunk. Nothing and nowhere was comfortable. His vertebrae felt like they’d been rubbed raw. Disconsolate, his eyes wide and staring roved the pitted ceiling of the King County Jail. The cage they put him in was far dirtier and grimier than anything he had ever experienced. There were thirteen floors in this jail, and being as he was on the eighth floor, entombed in a block of gray steel, and shivering from the cold of the place, he felt as far removed from life as if he had been buried alive. The walls felt like they were closing in, the room appeared to be visibly shrinking, and he knew that couldn’t be happening, could it? He kept telling himself that this was not happening. But he had difficulty breathing, which made him think the air supply had been cut off. How much oxygen could he rely on, he didn’t know. From staleness of the air, he didn’t think he had long.

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