"Primarily Black and White" collage by Tiffany Dugan

by Sarah Seybold

In eighth grade, I ached for a leather jacket. The kind the popular people wore. A brown bomber with a world map lining the inside.

I saved for months, nearly a year. Babysitting money from the single mom down the road. Long hours after school, changing her toddler’s poopy diapers and chasing her two little girls whose hands were stinky from Cheez Whiz. Their small, musty house even messier than my own cluttered trailer. Occasional weekend jobs in town for the Air Force major and his wife.

"Favourable" painting by Michael Moreth

by Daniel Speechly

It started with galbi-jjim.

We ladled the savory stew onto our rice and into our mouths; it tasted of life itself: browned beef-ribs, carrot, potato, radish, pyogo mushroom, garlic, and jujube brought together in a simmering pot brimming with sugar and soy.

The glistening ribs plucked from the broth were like revelation precariously grasped between our chopsticks. With our first bites the world bared its soul, showing us possibilities we had never considered.

“City Hues in Blues” painting by Nuala McEnvoy

by Terrance Wedin

American Electric Power

They only care when you add someone. They want to know that person is worth the risk. Over the phone they make you verify that you are you. Last four digits. Mother’s maiden name.

But to remove them? A simple request. That person’s name is gone.

One less person for power company to worry about.

Pink Days