by Daniel John “Gonads are the organ for today,” the teacher said in organ class. I opened my expensive anatomy book to the drawings of the female reproductive system. My face started to heat up. Women crowded around to see the pictures, like a flock of ovaries. I moved back…
by William Thompson I wake sometimes, knowing my sister has been looking at me—about to say something, but she never does. The words of blame never come. That came from my father, but even he never spoke the words that have condemned me for almost three decades, not even in…
by Benny Diaz III Rudy Esparza didn’t like to dance. He couldn’t understand how people could do it, how they could coordinate their hands and their legs to do what the music told them to do. Even as a child, Rudy hated to dance. He used to make fun of…
by Jane Flint The camps are full of pick-up campers and those who come to pick. Brand new packing shed next door: old tomato crates stacked against the fence, long green machine still squeaky-clean. The women wash the clothes the food the children. The men play dice against the wall,…
by Keryna Stutts Her hands were a blue-green map of work and tears of Sunday dinners of scrap quilts. She held the world when his pain became too much. Cracked then filled with weariness. Her hands became my world of fried pies after school, a cool softness on my brow….
by Janis A. Brams Perspective One: The Storm Sometimes we sense the storm coming. We smell rain in the air or recognize the aches that accompany damp weather. Other times storms take us by surprise. A gentle breeze turns wild, uprooting trees that have stood their ground for centuries. Life…
by Angela LeBlanc Jaspreet and Birpartap sit in my classroom hands folded, lilted handwriting sings on paper Birpartap looks the businessman part no turban, but nearly cried when he lost his glasses on his birthday Jaspreet is embarrassed to heat up her food spiced and loud She stood, shaking as…
by Keryna Stutts no one ever knew the things that happened when the doors closed when school would end and home was the only place to go in those days the afternoon was scarier than the dark
by Christian Linville Circling above O’Hare in the afternoon sky, the aircraft trembled as it passed through the shifting waves of air. Kara smoothed the wrinkles of her blue skirt, crossing her legs in the dim cabin as the aircraft descended. While she felt the nakedness of her ring finger,…
by Jane Flint My uncle owned a parcel once. It was a beauty. Up there outside of Brookings. Most of it lay along a gentle slope facing southward. During runoff in the spring, every farm around would be wet or under water. But that piece would drain as soon as…