Fisayo D Adeyeye

When asked this the past, I’ve always felt pretty content saying that I simply “can’t not” write. In that I feel compelled to, or that when I think of a perfect day, that day includes writing something down. A poem, a short story, a couple stray lines of something indistinct. READ MORE

Brian Lin

I was wired by white worlds: the Midwest and the Ivy League. Fat, Asian, and queer, I feared sight as judgment. Abercrombie was the norm; I was nightcrawler.READ MORE

Sara Guerrero

ESTRELLITA (a recalling of an earlier time.)

When I was very little I asked my dad, “Do you have wee-wee? ”READ MORE

Mario Palomino

Why do I do this, why do I write? I haven’t asked myself this on the worst days, I haven’t asked myself this on the best days; maybe I’m scared of the answers I’ll find.READ MORE

Suzanne Wilcox

I write because in 10th grade, Mr. White told my entire English class that the research paper I submitted about the AIDS epidemic was the best paper he had read by a student for as long as he could remember. READ MORE


It had begun like it always did. There were the early stretches of light across the sky and I was there–waiting. In this moment, a requiem in crescendo recalled nostalgic memories. It had begun: the process of pain, devastation, and denial. READ MORE