The Keeping Room is an online magazine for all women writers, poets, and artists.
We are looking to publish your short stories, essays, free writing, poetry, and photo essays that touch on topics related to Women’s Wisdom, Lessons Learned, Self-care, Bodies, Relationships, and Community.
Writers selected for publication will be paid $25
Molly’s pas de chat is born of force, timing, and intensity. A blink of respite at the pinnacle of the leap, when chaos slips into calm. A gentle return to plywood. She rotates her heel, chafing against her too-small slipper. Works her turn from the back leg.
I was not allowed to answer the telephone. Unless, of course, I’d been told to, or, in the very off chance no one was...
I’m finally hitting my stride after last semester’s rocky start. It was a maddening experience because everything...
Cigarette burn holes in my cardigan meant Mom kept me close. I counted them in her comforter, seared edges lined up...
It was early Valentine’s Day morning when the first one washed up dead near Bridgend. By 10am there was a crowd around...
I want a yoga instructor with boobs. Real boobs, not those piss-poor B cups; not even C or D will do, although that’s progress …
It happened during the sweltering summer that they lived out of town, the summer of the white Ford station wagon’s inevitable demise…
The day I caught my twin sister Eliza kissing Danny Quinn, I never stopped to think they had a secret. Is that how the kiss felt to her? Like she already knew they were both gay?
Betty never thought food would be important. She never thought about food at all, certainly not about cooking it. Since leaving home, she ate most meals in the way she liked best: with a book or magazine on the table…
Date entry: Sunday, July 12, 1970
I’m coping by writing these notes. I got the idea from Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Notes from the Underground that was assigned in my AP English class during my last semester of high school.
It’s easy to get used to certain things, like aching shoulders and a sense of floating outside your life, looking down…
The burly sheriff, pressed uniform the color of gravy, knocks on the frame of the tattered screen door…
“When I desire you a part of me is gone…” Anne Carson, Eros the Bittersweet
They drove all day without any music, leaving the Finger Lakes in Sam’s old Honda just ahead of a snowstorm that would close the schools and the airport’s two gates