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Byline: Isabel Henderson

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No SWUGs

A senior woman deconstructs a controversial epithet: Senior Washed-Up Girl.

by Isabel Henderson on December 12, 2015September 22, 2017

Ovum

There are always eggs at my house. Well, I’ll clarify that—there are always eggs somewhere around my house. Usually the hens are obedient and lay in their nest boxes, but they love to hide their work from us. Occasionally we’ll pull hay bales from the barn to find a cache of eggs tucked in a corner, like the work of a lazy Easter bunny. Sometimes they have been there for years; when we were younger, my siblings and I would throw them against trees deep in the woods, where their sulfur was overwhelmed by the smell of pine.

by Isabel Henderson on March 1, 2014March 8, 2014

Telescoping Place

places you have lived, places you know better than anyone else, places in your mind, places you could inhabit, what it means to exist within a place

by Camila Legaspi, Conor Stonesifer, Elliott Eglash, Isabel Henderson, Katie Duggan, Rachel Stone, Sigrid Luth, Tamar Willis on November 21, 2015December 6, 2015

Womanhunt

“Where are the lesbians?” was the question that gave birth to this article. It was raised at a Nass meeting by one of our editors, and not one person in the room was able to offer insight. That the question would was even asked is in itself an issue. Why do so many Princeton students tell me they do not see a strong gay/lesbian/bisexual (various individuals preferred each term) women’s culture? At a school our size, how was there this seemingly hidden population?

by Isabel Henderson on May 9, 2013May 18, 2020

Cost-Benefit Analysis, 2013

I am to have this gold when you die. To buy ink for poems crumpled on the carpet purchased with your cancer. You’ll make nothing as a writer. But my materials are cheap. Each verse I write about you merely … Read More

by Isabel Henderson on February 14, 2016

The daylily, Hemerocallis, continues to bloom for days after its scapes are cut

for L. When you left me here to rot aboveground—preferring a disintegration undersoil, solo—they did not publish the story in the paper, this being in poor taste, your being far too young to die, the Star-Ledger style guide answering the … Read More

by Isabel Henderson on March 26, 2016February 15, 2018

It’s Not Chloe

“Clo? How you doin?” Luke says. I take a deep breath. “I’m okay, just getting ready,” I venture. “Where the hell are you?” he slurs. I am in Forbes’ dungeon-like art room in Princeton, NJ. Luke is outside a sports … Read More

by Isabel Henderson on October 19, 2013November 6, 2013

Manuscription

I worry I will run out of words to explain you to myself but you teach me in the night, across my back you trace forgotten alphabets.

by Isabel Henderson on February 14, 2016

Young Kids of Instagram

I logged on to Facebook to check it out. Her sister was fourteen, a freshman in high school. She had about a thousand friends and did not have 113 likes—it was up to 115 now, in the thirty minutes that elapsed since Allie’s text.

by Isabel Henderson on February 14, 2013March 22, 2013

Wild

It was my first night drinking since February. I’d decided to take a break from alcohol for all of March—now that I have the freedom to buy my own alcohol legally, I don’t feel as compelled to jump at it when offered. But mostly, I just wanted to see if I could make it for a whole month.

by Isabel Henderson on April 26, 2014October 26, 2015

Revelations

The spirituality of sightseeing.

by Isabel Henderson on April 26, 2015May 4, 2015


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