An essay by alum Rachel Howard (fiction, ’09) appears at OZY:

County fairgrounds in a Central Valley farm town. Same men she sees at Thrifty’s, at Perko’s, same would-be rock-star mustaches and boot-cut jeans, same swagger, except instead of Coors Light, they’re swinging pink teddy bears like freshly shot game for the girls with blue eye shadow. Forget them. Her date is in the stroller. Cotton candy stands hold out clouds of pink sugar like the peonies lining church aisles that she’s seen in wedding magazines. The air smells of cow dung and fried cornmeal. Rides that run in endless circles glitter, and teenagers screech. She nudges the stroller wheels over power cords held down by electrical tape, slowing at each crossing, noting thick blades of grass trampled into mud, thrilled to be taking such care.

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