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Art, Fiction, Film, Poetry, Theatre, & Other Imaginings
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By Ann Christine Tabaka  *Author's Note: Hestia, in Greek Mythology, goddess of the hearth, daughter of Cronus and Rhea, and one of the 12 Olympian deities.
Winter felt as if it had come early this year. It was only the first week of November and already the cold air was creeping down from the nearby mountains. Overnight it swept across the forests and planes, wrapping everything in a heavy sugary white frost. Outside, the vegetation shriveled and froze, transforming into glass-like statues of twisted vines and berries. Inside the tiny house, Mary and Beth awoke to see their breath hovering overhead in a chilly mist. They quickly pulled the thin flannel plaid blanket up over their heads and huddled even closer, trying to keep warm. Since it was only November, no one thought of starting a fire in the woodstove the night before. It was going to be a long winter, if they even made it through at all.
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The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Divya Manikandan  I devoted the hour between the end of my nine hour workday and the opening of Hanoi to watching people. It was the summer of an internship I did not want, but one I had to accept seeing as it was the only one I was offered. Thirty two rejections from companies bigger and better had left me desperate for anyone willing to contribute to my resumé. Family friends whose children were handpicked by recruiters at McKinsey and the many other big named buildings that blocked the sun from entering lowly streets, were beginning to flood community group chats and gatherings.
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 Trigger Warning: Baby loss
Artist's Statement Poetry, like flowers blossom in our everyday orchards. We being mere gardeners forage rays of sunshine in monotonous routine. Every raindrop has a song to sing and every blade of grass has a taleto speak.I hope my work voices their composition, celebrating beauty in mundanity. Deseeding your swollen plum wouldn't require a caesarean, a lateral knife slice through your abdomen deserves life. Not the pit; unripe, unready, unwanted. The juicy flesh, maroon underlying stain declined drift ,unsaid. Silent. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
 As the skin of birthday balloons stretch. Unable to check the
bread half risen. I turn to the April cloud, loosening her belt, bracing the upcoming downpour. When water taps are left open, earth's cushion broken. I raft through the filtered tea leaves, when joyous milk boils inviting the guest's painful soils. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Ute Carson  “Memory is the treasury and guardian of all things.”
- Cicero “How could I possibly remember that day in December,” Aunt Frieda sighs. Why, then, do I recall the day so vividly? The snow was piled high on the slanted roof. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
 A ray of sun strikes the copper’s badge and bounces off, lighting up the voting box inside H. L. Drugstore in me South Bronx neighborhood.
Now washed and mended, I wear the same once-blood-splattered and mud-stained dress, patched at the cuff, tattered ‘round the collar. It shows the scars from when we marched down Broadway, I holding a sign, The Vote For Equal Pay For Equal Work. It had started a glorious spring day, fresh from a night of rain, splendid with the radiance of blooming cherry blossoms. Little sister Annie pestered to come along. I told her, “Stay home with the youngins. You’re too small and there might be trouble.” She says, “I’m big enough and I’m a comin’. So there.” And so she did, running along the sidewalk, keeping step with the march. Annie inherited the stubbornness that we McPhersons shared. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Ute Carson  My book of life is wedged between bookends.
I search for memories I want to keep. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By George Leipold  There are 84.9 miles between Baltimore Maryland and West Chester Pennsylvania. The drive back took exactly two hours. Two hours to sit and think about the weekend with Ollie. To think about kissing them in the shower. To think about waking up on their white sheets. To think about kissing goodbye in the Parking garage across from their apartment.
“I taught someone else your smoke trick.” I didn’t know why I said it. I didn’t know why the words slipped out of the slippery slope of my tongue and teeth and lips. It hung in the air for a moment as Ollie exhaled a long hit of the joint we were passing, out the passenger window. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Danielle Segobiano  Where we trade in
our respective halves of a best friend necklace for a never-ending promise. This time, you do belong with me. We live out those famed lyrics, The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Olive Dwan  In the morning,
a bird call and in the far corner of the yard, tucked in cedar branches, faint red. |
