By Anonymous In life, you’re faced with obstacles, some that allow for your scuba gear to remain intact and some that send you spiraling to the bottom. For Mia, she was sent spiraling to the bottom, and still she forced her way back to the top. Now she kayaks upon the surface of the water, thankful for how strong she has become. No obstacle is too big to overcome or too small to work for.

By Maria Capezio Crookes We got out of the car with a water bottle, knife, gun, gloves (just in case), and 2-5 gallon buckets from a builder supply store. At the head of the trail, we saw them: another group with a bucket, but without all the gear that makes you local. “Great day for berry picking!” someone in the other group said. “Shame about the bears…” I said, almost in a whisper. They exchanged concerned looks, as my companion—unnoticed—placed a bear warning sign that we had printed at home. We filled our buckets with delicious berries, unbothered, in the secrecy of our berry picking spot. No tourists in sight.…

By Maria Capezio Crookes Cuppies & Joe was our chosen coffee spot to meet after work. Our friendship was born in the front office of an elementary school and grew thanks to caffeine, terrible coworkers, a resignation, and the need for someone to listen to us. Like any plant that you feed coffee grounds, our friendship grew fast. The coffee dates became movie nights, babysitting, and a matching tattoo that I swore I would never get. There are 4,000 miles between us, and coffee doesn’t taste the same without her.

By R.E. Lowrance Hoar frost melts softly under my prints. The air filters the same sleepy blue as my mind. Tree roots sleep at my feet, and gold reflects off the mountain’s winter coat. Alizarin crimson fades around the edges of new snow. My skin takes on a hint of green beneath the fur of my hat and it’s more apparent here than anywhere. The frost nips and herds, the path carries on, endless. After so long in the cold, the woods and wild, the hearth tempts me not. I live for glass on my eyelashes, the scent of pine on my nose, and a quiet mind soothed in blue.…

By R.E. Lowrance Chrystal paths Of blue and gold Turn dark On where I step. Walk not our path, They seem to say, New snow is hard to lay. But I know why They cry out so, I know why they weep. For paths like them Get no regard From those they wish to keep.

Corinna Cook I sleep on a plush couch in front of the woodstove under the mounted head of a bison. The bison’s head is beautiful and enormous and probably haunted. I believe I could fit my whole body into it. Some folding is all it would take: bent knees, abdomen pressed to thighs, chin tucked, arms hugging. I imagine rivers of muscle from which the bison’s head was severed. In my fetal position, curled up inside its skull, I’m rocked left and right, alone with every choice I’ve ever made. The ungulate nibbles and chews, crunches and slurps, while the woodstove hisses and grows, eventually, dim. 

Paul Twardock Anticipating the question, he answers with authority. A situation or a conversation with an unknown outcome leads to the authoritative answer made with assumptions. Assumptions based on the past. Assumptions based on a need or desire of the authority figure, but not of others. Maybe even they think their need and desire is that of others, but who knows without asking, with just reaction. Can’t say, not knowing. 

By Laura Ditto How lonely the moon must be to have finally met a friend, yet only take what has been given, and hand it out again.  It yearns for some attention and blisters in the sun, but gives the light it has received and leaves itself with none.  The moon it only loves and cares for all it sees. It takes not what is given— instead, it sets it free. 

Maurlucuaq Alethia Belleque Two peals of laughter fill the air as the river meanders by on a sunny day.   You’re three, maybe four, watching your gram.  Your eyes flicker between her as she filets reds and kings,  And the grayling and dollies that nibble at the fish guts in the water.  She begins to cut another red, and suddenly, she says,  “Look! It’s still beating!”   She shows you a pulsing burgundy heart.  The two of you watch the heart beat and beat.  And it’s as though the three of your hearts beat as one. 

By Rosanne Pagano It’s possible, so I’ve been told, to waste time on other people’s dogs, but judging by the response, I’m fine. They’re the ones who start it with that pull on the leash, that whip of the head, eyes seeking mine. The dogs, I mean.  “Stop me,” I say to whomever I’m with (or if alone, to my own feet). “It’s embarrassing to love other people’s dogs.”  But restraint fails, doesn’t it?  And there I go again. Mittens off, I’m scratching ears, rubbing bellies. Returning smiles.  “That’s a good dog,” I say, and always I am right.