By Kelly Aurora Beltane The opposite of insipid liquid sipped with lustrous lip against clickity-clack cup on plate, a pinky lift, fingers licked and thumbing through bricks thick of papery page turns, stacks on stacks, no clocks to tick away or take chunks of a day, the squeak of finger pads pulled  across porcelain, prying cookie into pieces to dunk, and crunch and  issolve in cheek. Still, time isn’t still. It swirls under spoon, twirls and teems in steam clouds and questions the left behind leaves.

By Kelly Aurora Beltane This is where we accept direction. To carry us on non-disclosed open road. Hamster-wheel Earth under rims. They spin with nowhere to go. Here. Right here. The map shows no arrival. No place we haven’t been before. No look in the mirror with new eyes. No ice scraper brush with a stranger. We understand this place because our hearts have been broken before. On the side of a goodbye. A soft shoulder to cry away into canyons of candor. Here. Left here, dear. Turn here. We are pointing to glass, to paper, to each other.

Martin Bargo The moonless night invited the tour bus to break down three miles before Boeung Trakoun. Wielding a paper map and a compass, after some finger measurements, we decided to leave the road and walk across the eerily quiet forest. “Straight northbound, we’re almost there,” Arkadiusz promised. “You and your shortcuts!” I replied, frowning in the dark.  A minute later, we reached town. While jumping over the guardrail, an astonished group of locals stared at us, jaws dropped, some grabbing their heads. “Did you walk through there?” asked one of them in perfect English. Hesitantly, we both nodded. “You just crossed a World War II minefield.”

Jen Erickson For those who feel the imbalance of their world in contrast to another’s: The variance in the world’s weight does not allow for balance. It’s impossible. When the weight has thrown you to the ground and you look around and see others standing, it does not mean that they don’t feel the imbalance. But it may signal a need to rest—to breathe. Because when you stand, you will feel the ambivalence once more. Read the news, but also read your heart and recognize the weight it carries. Pause today to marvel. Not to forget, but to remember.

Joy Saugier Dark highway at night  No headlights other than mine Ocean on my left.

Beth King The harvest moon has just bestowed itself upon the dark night sky, the first time we’ve seen our moon since the season of the midnight sun. Effortlessly, I find myself in the dirt, damp from the first frost. The air smells of highbush cranberries. In the morning, the sun penetrates your cheeks like a goodbye kiss. The potatoes—purple, yellow, red—loosen like gold from the ground. I pull the stems, shake, one, two, three—even the little ones count. We’ll eat them all year, give them to friends. Oh, I’ll miss when harvest time ends.

By Chaun Ballard My wife is in the kitchen following her mother’s Rhubarb Dessert recipe, which, on paper, (the recipe) is simply titled “Rhubarb Dessert,” which, we figure, creates a dilemma if we are tasked to bring a dessert to a gathering and someone asks us, “What are you bringing to the gathering?” If we respond, “Rhubarb Dessert,” which is its name, naturally, they will come back with “What kind of rhubarb dessert?” to which we will have to clarify, “‘Rhubarb Dessert’ is its name.” This may explain why no one names their dog “What,” because, inevitably, someone will ask “What is your dog’s name?” and you must respond.

By Martin Bargo “Leave your phone. Pocketless shorts instead of those. No shirt,” said Manuel, not kidding but not being too serious either.  “Can I bring my flip-flops?” I asked, a bit joking and a bit for real. “Your flip-flops are fine. Bring them. I’m leaving mine.”Mentally prepared to deal with a scorching sun, we sizzled out of the house. After the first corner, a kid put a gun to our faces. “Me dê tudo!” he screamed, meaning, “Give me everything.”  Manuel smiled internally.“Seus chinelos!” he shouted, pointing at my feet. I tossed him the size-fourteen Havaianas. He tried them on, laughed, threw them back at me, and walked away.

By Anonymous I like seeing leaves fall off the trees because that means fall is coming. Seeing them fall reminds me of all the feelings inside me that I need to let go of. It reminds me that when the cold winter comes, all those leaves become soil for new plants. Just like that, my heart’s leaves will fall, become soil, and bloom again in the back of my heart. I like seeing leaves fall and then turn into flowers because that means I also have an opportunity to bloom again.

By Maria Capezio Crookes The best stories I’ve never written flooded my brain while showering. It might be the absence of a cellphone, a screen, or artificial noises. Maybe is the relaxing sound of the water, the scalding temperature trying to burn away the weariness of the days, the routine of knowing where all your things are, without having to look (shampoo on the left, conditioner on the right, of course). And it doesn’t matter how fast I run to the blank page, all the stories vanish with each step I take. That is why, every time I start with the routine, I go in with the hope of finding…