By Cadence Cedars At dusk by the river, we wander,  Swans ripple in the stream.  Auntie calls, her voice like mist,  Whispering through our quiet dream.  Kneeling low, she speaks of times,  When fish traps caught the night.  Little people, hidden folk,  Would steal by fading light.  Ircinrrat have their own light.   They dance where shadows roam.  We listen close as spirits hum,  In lands that we call home.  She rises slow, her stories fade,  As stars begin to gleam.  We walk behind her, quiet now—  Carried by the dream. 

By K. Tazuko Marciales   She is named for an Egyptian princess, wrapped in gold and desert winds, stalking, belly low, ears twitching at the cowbird’s thin notes.   Her paws press into soft ground- sweetgum leaves crackle in fanfare.   Creation watches. Her vassals kneel.   The yard is a forgotten paradise, tall fescue whispers things she’ll conquer. Once, streets spread to the sea, now reclaimed by soil, watered by hurricanes, where blackberries and horsetails return.   She retreats to her palace— marble floors, a twilight throne. Her sleek form rests knowing Mark Antony waits for her.

By Mara Lorch my lucky eyes see dust clouds overtaking the wide river valley in spring. After many dark, quiet months, I hear the water flow; the ice breaks up and melts away into the glacial stream below. Tender green dots the air surrounding tree branches, breaking white’s monotony. First almost imperceptibly, the colors of this place unfurl, then a wild cascade breaks away until there’s nothing here that isn’t green. Mountainsides bloom from root to crown, garden beds swell, moose hooves tramp new shoots down. I watch the world circle from this place, nestled creekside in the cottonwoods.

By Catherine LaCourreye Warren (age 10) A young girl sits on a couch at home. A magazine is in her lap, and a sudden breeze stirs the room. A few loose pages fly out of the magazine, and the girl gazes at them in wonder. She admires the models and actresses and beautiful homes. She wishes and dreams yet, she knows she has all she needs. She has a loving mother and a good house and a place to sit. She has food and clean water. She knows what is going on in the world. She doesn’t want for anything. Yet, she still wishes.

By Scott Warren Putting his hand on the boy’s shoulder the old man said, “First you cry, that’s alright; that’s good. You respect the animal. After you have cried, we will pilak – cut it up. When they finished the boy gave that caribou to the old man’s wife’s mother – the oldest person of all – her name was Qutanna – because that was what children did with their first kill. In time, the boy himself became old. He named his grandson Qutan, after that old man’s wife’s mother, in remembrance of the old man’s kindness. But the boy never learned to kill without crying.

By Martin Bargo He wanted to enter APU’s 100-word story contest with a piece called “Side Quest.” His pen was out of ink, so he pedaled on the icy roads across campus to buy a replacement. At the store, the card reader wasn’t working, so he went in search of an ATM. He found one; the machine ate his credit card—and kept the cash. Frustrated, he stormed into the bank to reclaim his card and spotted a basket full of pens. He grabbed a couple and hurried home, only to discover he’d locked himself out. Again.