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 He stood alongside the oil-stained Greyhound stall as my bus lurched to a stop in lane six. Blaring horns bounced off grimy station walls, screeching at those pretending sleep was possible. Like me, he was young. His posture was relaxed, but I wasn’t as I stared at him through the smudged glass. The shaggy hair, honey-brown face under artificial lights, thin bow-legged stance – every detail was Jose. Though it couldn’t possibly be Jose, my heart fluttered.
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By Alex Carrigan  When I decided that I wanted to write book reviews regularly, I decided that one of my goals as a critic would be to expose myself to more perspectives and points of view that were completely alien from my own. I felt like if I was going to write about other people's work, I would need to suspend my own experiences and my specific mindset to try and let these writers educate me and challenge me. I wanted to write about the questions I had to ask and the answers given to me from writers who weren't like me. Doing this has exposed me to some incredible writers and works, but more importantly, it made me realize how necessary it is to continually educate oneself.
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 Mom’s calendar page boasted a busy week that August when she was living at Napa’s Redwoods, a retirement community. There were the usual events: Bingo, Wednesday luncheon, hair appointment, church. But that week, the activities director had organized two extra bus trips. Monday was a winery visit. Wrapped in the heady perfume of ripening grapes, guests would sample hors d’oeuvres and sip wine against the backdrop of Napa Valley’s lush vineyards. And for my eighty-two-year-old football-loving mother, Tuesday sounded even better. The Oakland Raiders had their summer training camp in Napa; Redwoods residents would watch the Raiders, and then go to lunch.
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By Cassandra Bristow  Sometimes that tale as old as time is so tangible I can hardly breathe.
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By Meaghan Curley  Incandescence by Mehreen Ahmed is equal parts endearing, philosophical, and sentimental.
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