My legacy is counted through stains.
A patch of muddied red clings to the bright yellow cloth. Its died cotton expanse proven durable through the years. Threads coil from green trim, an accidental tassel that continues to unwind despite sharp tugging. The cloth molds nicely to my body, telling of consistent wear, yet the double-stitch lining suggests its continued usefulness.
My hands scrub in small jerking movements, the suds twine along my palms and bubbles pop at my fingertips.
I was caught unaware and the red reminds me of my thoughtlessness.
Back and forth, more dispensary soap, more cold water. Foam drops spray and pearls dot my hair.
The blood won’t come out.
Jerk, jerk, soap, rinse, squint. The movement is familiar.
Varying hued lines remain. The crisscrossed pattern a neon sign. Brows draw together,
lips purse.
Jerk, soap, jerk, rinse. A monthly dance.
I raise my hands, hoping that the light will make all those layered reds disappear.
Soap, jerk, soap, rinse.
The faded paths remain, seemingly darker this time.
Pre-Sex Then:
We stand in the kitchen with a cup of coffee between us and the air steams with a heat all our own.
I see it in her eyes. We look at each other with a spark so potent it could burn the house down. She tries desperately to swallow the coffee faster, but it’s too hot. My hands go to her arms, her waist, curl into the hem of her shirt. I want.
I’ve hated every man I have ever slept with. A deep rage bubbling from within me. Rage at what they took from me, and how little it must have meant to them.
The light in my room is dim; it's going to rain again, and neither of my windows sit in the right spot to catch the source of the light. I’ve tried my best to illuminate the space, but it somehow always manages to feel like a cave of sorts. Like a lair. It's my lair.
No man has taken this room from me.
The summer after my dad dies is a slutty one.
I spend most of May haunting a neighborhood ex while his girlfriend is out of town. We trade plausibly-deniable texts and “accidentally” run into each other at Cobble Hill’s diviest bar. I sit on a wooden stool six inches too close to him, fully aware that my silk mini skirt has ridden up around my waist. I don’t bother adjusting it. We never cross any official lines, but the thrill of possibility is enough to feed the yawning hunger that eats through my gut at all hours.
The first time I touched their chest, I didn't know what I was doing. That's not quite right—I knew what my hands were doing. I didn't know what it meant.
We were in the Jeep, right after that first kiss. A kiss that undid me completely. A kiss that took me by surprise since we started by just talking the way we always talked, sentences that started one place and ended somewhere neither of us expected. It had been an icy cold January day and we were enjoying what felt like quiet even though the brewery was busy with families and beer and dogs and that post-holiday need for people to find something to do that was not Christmas and was not preparing for the holidays to end. Suddenly, we were looking at each other the way you look at someone when the conversation has moved into a register that doesn't need words anymore.
I left on a clear October Monday. Seated at the bulkhead, my elbow rested next to a man who asked if I was going to Chicago for business. I lied, nodding my head yes. Ambivalence prevented me from updating my second-generation iPod earlier in the day, leaving Missy Elliott and Usher to comfort me. A leathery skinned smoker picked me up at baggage claim. She drove me forty-five minutes to our rural destination while I imagined what happens when car doors open and bodies land on I-55 at seventy-five miles per hour.
I’ve always been a good patient—keep my jaw open even when it aches for the dentist, never flinch from the needle of a vaccine, and have thick, easy-to-find veins for blood draws. Maybe I learned it in high school on the soccer field; complain, and be benched. Maybe I carried it in my DNA, passed down from stoic Norwegian farmers; suffering is inevitable, better to keep your mouth shut and your eyes towards God.
My mother remembers one less, but I remember seven. Seven places I called home outside of Nanny’s trailer. Each move had its own life and timeline complete with characters and climate, seemingly separate from the world happening at Nanny’s. Seven times I packed my “101 Dalmatians” suitcase and cardboard boxes of pictures. I gained a little more makeup for each move: a new sheen lip gloss, glitter nail polish with chunky stars, Hot Topic eyeshadow, the limited edition Gerard Way palette that glowed bright red. Puberty marked by moves.
My cellmate at the correctional center that I had been transferred to six weeks after the guilty verdict, or cellie as we called them, was trying to teach me how to survive my final transfer—prison. Lucky for me. She claimed to have spent four years there. But this time she was only going to empty instant espresso packets down her throat and pace around the tiny box with her swishing Rapunzel hair in jail instead of prison.
The city lights blurred as I drove to the hospital. Mt. Spokane sat on the horizon, its slopes and lifts hidden in darkness, a silent witness to my brother’s sudden fall. Hours earlier, he'd grabbed his snowboard and driven to the top. Now, he lay braced and broken.
Part of me rehearsed the what-ifs, ran scripts about what could have been. I pushed these thoughts away, wiping the blur from my eyes. I couldn't create a second emergency. But few drivers were out, streets icy from a fresh storm.
All of them had been so sudden. Death. Now you see them, now you don’t. That was my experience of the deceased, the ones closest to me. Mother, father, sister, brother, brother. With you through their time on earth, then gone in a flash. Departing like lightning.
On my thirteenth Halloween I stayed over at my dad’s apartment on the other side of town, and for hours, well into the morning, we watched a live taping of a paranormal investigation on the Discovery Channel. The host was blond and the psychic had an earring and they were somewhere historic in the UK. The night-vision camera gave the TV an eerie green glow, the blond host had big eyes like a doll; we were rapt with attention. There were sightings of children who’d passed and mothers in cloaks and fathers who walked about in suits. Tapping and knocking and tiny objects making incremental movements. Orbs abound. EVP recordings.
Mary Catherine was sixteen when she was diagnosed with liver cancer and barely twenty-one when she died. I traveled to the depths of despair after she was gone. I found my way back by convincing myself I’d never have to return.
I was wrong.
Looking through the gallery of the dojang I take a seat and fixed my eyes on my son. Justin bowed and stepped onto the mat. He had perfected his poomsae and was nervously excited to complete his belt test in hopes of being promoted from a yellow to orange belt after months of practice. Proud parents flowed into the room in anticipation of the event. A tide of chatter rose above a sea of phones that was primed to capture each child’s accomplishment.
I glare at the cloth. I had made more progress developing blisters on my pruned fingers then restoring the color of the fabric. Each cycle brings a new layer, a consequence of this game of anticipation. I thought I had played rather well this time, eliminating lighter colors from my outfits, sticking to comfortable pants, the constant checking. An endless list of constraints.
Has it happened yet? Can I really wear that? Where’s the nearest bathroom?
At the soft metal squeak, my eyes dart up to the mirror to see the stall door swing open behind me. A woman glances at my vain attempts and the running water. A courtesy smile twitches at her lips. My figure hunches forward trying to hide my failure. I grimace, half-embarrassed, half-ashamed that I feel embarrassed.
All these reds: my numbed hands, the patch on the cloth, bright splotches swirling in the
toilet, streaks running down my thighs, the new tampon sitting at an odd angle.
Me and my stains.
Jerk, soap, rinse, jerk. So much effort for such an insignificant piece of clothing.
A cramp rolls through in time with my scrubbing. As if to say: “I got you. You were too slow.”
The game was certainly harder these past months. I had deleted my iPhone health data after the end of Roe to ensure my privacy, opting to tune in to my body’s signals. The recent cravings for salt and chocolate, an ill-timed pimple, irritation over simple mistakes. The tells were all there but I had read them incorrectly—rationalized as stress over a procrastinated essay or disappointing exam score. Now, I worshiped a worn piece of clothing under cold water, praying no one else would come into the bathroom.
The red mocked me.
More soap, jerk, jerk, squint.
Thank the stars I was not in white, or stuck in class, or simply doing anything far from a bathroom. I want the cramps to stop, for the pad to sit properly; I want a thick chocolate bar and some extra-salted fries. I want the blood to come out and I do not want anyone to ask if I am on my period.
Jerk, jerk, jerk.
This cloth mattered, it comforted me and spoke of my history.
Even if I threw away this underwear, my stains remain.
-Ava Galbraith
This product gives you access to all four weeks of the workshop. Purchase one or more drop-in sessions here.
Build a habit in 20 sessions. In this 4 week workshop that meets Mondays through Fridays from 8:00-9:00 AM CST, we will focus on generating new writing—making headway on a current project, reviving an old project that’s been gathering dust, or writing based off of the daily prompts Leigh provides.
The first 45 minutes of class are a gentle, camera-off, silent writing session. The remaining 15 minutes are an opportunity to share excerpts of our work, reflect on progress made, and set intentions for the following day. Then we will read a passage together on the writing life and close each class with a new learning about habit formation. By the end of this course we’ll have a morning writing habit that is each our own to continue and build upon.
This listing is for an individual class. To purchase access for the full 4-week workshop, click here.
Build a habit in 20 sessions. In this 4 week workshop that meets Mondays through Fridays from 8:00-9:00 AM CST, we will focus on generating new writing—making headway on a current project, reviving an old project that’s been gathering dust, or writing based off of the daily prompts Leigh provides.
The first 45 minutes of class is a gentle, camera-off, silent writing session. The remaining 15 minutes are an opportunity to share excerpts of our work, reflect on progress made, and set intentions for the following day. Then we will read a passage together on the writing life and close each class with a new learning about habit formation. By the end of this course we’ll have a morning writing habit that is each our own to continue and build upon.
Many writers feel drawn to write about their lives but struggle with uncertainty: Why this story? Why now? And who is it really for? This workshop is designed to help writers move beyond doubt and toward clarity by focusing on the deeper meaning and purpose beneath their story.
In this interactive, craft-forward session, participants will be introduced to the Memoir Compass, a practical framework that helps writers articulate their motivation (why they are writing), mission (who the story serves), and message (what meaning or insight the story carries). Through guided reflection and writing exercises, participants will begin shaping a personal narrative rooted in intention rather than overwhelm.
This workshop is ideal for writers interested in memoir or personal narrative, as well as fiction writers drawing from lived experience, who want to move forward with greater confidence, focus, and direction.
Ava Galbraith is fascinated by unexpected turns in stories. She dives deep into characters’ psyches and uses stream of consciousness to tell stories. Her work has been published in over a dozen literary magazines, including The Dewdrop, San Joaquin Review, Open: Arts & Literary Magazine, BrightFlash1000, CP Quarterly, among others. When not developing intriguing flash fiction, she competes in equestrian show jumping and enjoys emerging herself in foreign cultures. Ava lives in Tucson, Arizona.
I remember one time when he was fucking me from behind and I caught sight of my earring falling out and landing on the couch beside me. The earring wasn't the problem—it was a large chandelier, glamorous, well within my sight line. But the tiny silver back was another issue. Did she even wear earrings?