photo by Joyce Ellis

by Brian Ellis

No childhood is complete without facing this one question one thousand times at least. It may come from a friendly aunt at Thanksgiving dinner, a well-meaning neighbor from behind the wooden fence or an adult you’ve never seen before and never will see again, but ultimately the person asking you the question is inconsequential. The important part is to have an answer for when the inevitable time comes. 

“So…what would you like to be when you grow up?”

Since you are a small child,

by Kevin Grauke

Photo by specphotops on Unsplash

This story isn’t mine to tell, but here I am telling it, and without even the courtesy of asking her permission. To dilute my guilt, I think of a mother’s blood, how it continues to pulse through the chambers of her child’s heart long after the umbilical cord, thick as a beefy thumb, has been severed. And since this is true of blood, maybe it’s true of stories, too, since nothing seems more vital within us than the stories we’ve absorbed from those whose blood courses through us.

by Isaac James Richards

Photo courtesy of the Author

            I visited my grandpa’s grave again yesterday. Easter Sunday. I cannot think of him without thinking of Jerusalem. How the two have fused in my memory. It’s been four years.  

            I was in Jerusalem on a research trip when the pandemic hit. My institution demanded that I return immediately, more than a month early. When I got on the plane and slipped into my seat, there was a quote floating on the screen in front of me.

By Jan Karlo Lopez

photo by Jeylan Jones

It’s your movie, write off whom you want. Tell everyone, including yourself, that they died. Anyone who asks understands because ironically the only guidance given on a breakup is to not speak on the break-up. Your friend that’s fucking their ex will implore you not to fuck yours. Your friend who drunk dials their ex will suggest you block their number. Your friend who cheats will pray you find someone new and settle down like they did. Your friend that’s a bigger piece of shit than you will beg you to forget about your ex while they try to fuck them behind your back.

By Simon A. Smith

photo by the author 

You never told anyone the whole story about your dad. You let most people think he was little more than a kooky horndog or dirty sailor. It was better for both of you. He got to see himself as the comedian he always wanted to be, and you got to pretend you weren’t dying inside every time he told another unsettling joke. That way, your friends felt it was harmless to laugh at all his unsavory antics. Like when you were at the pizza joint downtown,

photo by Tony Wallin-Soto

by George Choundas 

You walk briskly to catch the train. Couple of blocks to go. Running late. Even chances you’ll make it. Then you see something fifty yards ahead, darting into your path from a side street. It’s another commuter, also running late. He’s looking at his wristwatch and jittery. Like you, he vibrates as much he moves, clearly fraught with decisional anguish, debating whether to break into a sprint. Then he turns and catches sight of you. In a moment’s glance, he appraises. He notes you’re walking and not running, and presumably gathers up indications of credibility—who knows,