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…

By Maria Capezio Crookes The dialogues that happen in the still moments that I have by myself, while focusing on the routine of laundry, cooking, dishes, or driving kids to school, are sometimes lost in the busyness of my day. I write entire stories of bravery and courage while turning on Zarvis Rd., of grief and sadness when chopping onions, of hope and desperation folding T-shirts. I’ve come up with the answers that I couldn’t find in the heat of the moment. I have found the right words for my beloved.

By Joe The Outer Banks were desolate come Fall. As a beige VW station wagon turned into the campground, I said, “Babes,” and caught sight of their strange dog. In his 70’s hormonally-challenged lexicon, Jim replied, “Serious ‘babage.’” A babe went into the dunes, and the other into the ocean. We gave chase. One evaporated into the dunes; the other outpaced Jim, who half-drowned as she vanished. Then suddenly we noticed: no babes, no VW, no dog. Jim whispered, “The legend… the legend of Exotica and Erotica and their dog el Spotica.” Witnesses to legend, we drank heavily.

By Angel J Anguilar I knew what Sacrifico was before I knew the translation in English Meaning Sacrifice It was when my mom would tell us that “Tu padre sacrifico todo por Ti y tu hermanos” The kind of talks my parents would give us And explain what was a sacrifice and Why families would do it Mis padres sacrifican toda para darnos un sueño A dream that they always wanted but instead They gave to us.

By Annelida SmithVail Bright headlights rushing past me, cold air, dark sky. It’s still October, I’m 23, but now I’m in the middle of winter, the middle of my adolescence, elsewhere in Anchorage. The school closes at 4, so I walk 10 minutes to the People Mover bus stop and stand there in the cold. The bus arrives just before 5, not caring that it was scheduled for 4:30, scheduled by planners who knew nothing of this place, this moment. Something large rushes past with blinding lights—a truck, a memory? Maybe a place, a moment, which I can no longer know.

By Jordan Hales Orange tabby cat paws pitter-patter on the wooden floor. He saunters to the kitchen at midnight to turn on and climb into the kitchen sink. WHY?! I don’t know, he’s an orange cat! He knocks over the glass bottle, claws the blinds down, and steals food off the table. His persistent meows fill the room—he has something to say. Always, he has something to say. He’s a crazy, chaotic ball of golden-orange fur, but all he wants is a scratch behind the ears, dinner, a little love, and the occasional grilled cheese sandwich. That orange tabby cat. 

By Jordan Hales The leaves are yellow but frosted over. There’s snow in the mountains, yet it melts when it reaches sea level. It’s that time of year when school feels enlightening, but we’re all pushing through that midterm schlump. Sunshine still rises high in the sky, but the October chill takes away its warmth—our days are getting shorter and shorter. Scarves are wrapped tight, and coffee is piping hot. Assignments are in at the end of the day…at 11:59. Winter tires are on, and now we wait for the snow. It’s that time of year again. 

By Steve Rubinstein The day we met it did not rain until we fell  into a rocking slumber side by side  her tent held to the metal deck with duct tape  mine blown off in Ketchikan  her lips so close I thought I heard her calling out  a name she swore she did not know.  From that day on I saw her shaped from water  eyes aglow with each dark cloud  spirit lifted, lit, reflected in each puddle   forming at her feet from falling rain  or so I would remember I believed   when I believed in truths  I believed in rain.