By Martin Bargo It was 1986, and he did not fit any definition of a “good boy,” but since he was the firstborn child on both sides of the family, Santa still brought him a present. And what a present! The flaming, exciting, and futuristic Atari 2600. The console came with a one-button joystick and a cartridge. He connected everything and flipped the power switch. The old-school TV, which back then was just school, lit up like pixelated fireworks, displaying an outstanding number of colors: 128.             In the game, a tiny character jumped between chunks of ice, and every jump added a brick to an igloo in the background.…

By Cadence Cedars Beneath the sky where softness reigns,Embrace the call as daylight wanes.Come forth, unmasked, in nature’s fold,Share with the wind the tales untold.Root deep within the earth’s embrace,Merge with the land, find your place.Let Mother Nature’s senses reel,In her bosom, let your spirit heal.For in the whispers of the breeze,Lies the melody that brings us ease.Live in rhythm with her pure,In her symphony, we endure.

By Margaret Worthington DarknessWaking up in February feels heavy. Time seems like an illusion when you open youreyes to complete darkness after eight hours of sleep. My brain attempts to rationalize thatperhaps it is not time to start the day. Maybe it is 5AM and I still have three hours of blissfulsleep ahead of me. From December to March, my initiation to the day is checking the time andfinding in disbelief that despite the perpetual darkness outside, it is 8 AM. In December andJanuary, I approach this phenomenon with scientific curiosity. How much time is being lostevery day? How does this affect the wildlife in this area? Does my internal…

By Cadence Cedars As I awaken from a night of camping in the Yukon wilderness, a chill in the air promptsme to burrow deeper into my cozy sleeping bag. Relishing the warmth for just a few moremoments, I listen to the soft rustling of the trees and the gentle caress of the wind against thefabric of the tent. With a reluctant sigh, I reach for my watch, its dim light illuminating the earlyhour: 05:51 AM. Glancing over at Alisson, still deep in slumber, I gather the resolve to leave thecomfort of my warm cocoon. Slowly, I unzip the sleeping bag and slip out, greeted by crispmorning air that nips at…

By Maria Capezio Crookes I am often asked about my immigrant experience, about the things that I miss, the things that I don’t, and if I’d move back home. My answers have been a variation of, “Of course, I miss my family and friends, my people.” Or “I would move back, so my kids can grow closer to their cousins.” For many years I believed those words. After some time, I’d smile while answering with the usual polite platitudes, feeling the leap in my heart telling me I was full of it. Yes, you miss your family, but you wouldn’t move back, my heart would say, while my brain would…

By Jordan Hales Spring is the time to reset, recharge, and reflect as the earth begins to thaw. The birds chirp in twitter-pation. The trees bud at the sign of warmth and sunshine. It’s breakup season. Dirt and rocks and salt and trash galore. Spring is a sign of hope, or it’s supposed to be, anyway. The darkness is enveloped by light. Pushing it back, back, back. Spring is a refresh, or it’s supposed to be, anyway. Spring is a reflection.    Reflection on everything over the years, not just the past year. January to March is a tricky time. Is? Was? It’s hard to tell—ask me again tomorrow. Memories are…

By Maisy Morley Back at home, we live almost completely alone. Our house is tucked away on a windy driveway, pushed back into the forest so deep that you can barely see between the trees. Our neighbors consisted of a strange couple across the street and our three quiet chickens that rummaged around our yard, like New York pigeons. I have only interacted with that strange couple three times: twice when they pulled out of their driveway so quickly they almost hit my parked car, and once when they hollered at us to come pull the trapped silver salmon out of the mud flats.  The day was warm when my…

By Mara Lorch Every barefoot step, skip, or hop within the plum tree’s reach was a risk. As an eight-year-old with a sprinkler wiggling across the grass on a summer’s day, I bounded freely, with shoes and sensibility so far behind my mind, they may as well have fallen out when I somersaulted into the sweet July sunshine. Purple stains the wooden porch, the hands picking, and the feet dancing. The size of a cherry, these plump plums were best eaten whole. Their skin appeared a lilac gray until a fingerprint smudged the matte surface away, uncovering their dark purple shine. A yellow flesh juiced out once bitten, sticking to…

By Destiny B. Key Being within Alaska’s nature has always been my definition of “home”. I refuse to call any place “home” because I know my home is Alaska. It’s in the waterfalls off the side’s of the Seward Highway, it’s in Whittier at the Salmon Creek run, it’s in the view of the Sleeping Lady and it’s in the Matanuska Glacier. Immersing and submitting to Alaska’s flora, fauna and salmon filled cool waters always felt beautifully natural. It’s apart of me and it’s a part of who I am, even to this day, being far from the land I am most familiar with. 

By Maria Capezio Crookes You see, a mate is like a period and a space. You take one and then you can start a new paragraph. -Julio Cortazar, Rayuela Mate (pronounced Mah-teh) is a traditional South American drink, brewed from the dried leaves of Yerba Mate (Ilex paraguariensis) in hot water, served in a dried hollow gourd, and briefly steeped. The drink is sucked from the gourd with a metal straw, which is fitted with a strainer at one end to keep leaf particles from the mouth (Encyclopedia Britannica). *** Drinking mates is ceremony. You can’t hurry it up. There is not such a thing as “let’s drink some quick…