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

Kehareb

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

Heidi Turner

Scene: doctor’s office. I am twelve, turning thirteen. The doctor is in her fifties. I put down the book I’d brought with me.READ MORE

Nick Maurer

“We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” This first sentence of Joan Didion’s essay, “The White Album,” ignites her investigation of the social unraveling of American society in the 1960’s, an unraveling that parallels her own psyche. READ MORE

Kathryn H. Ross

I often say I’m not good at anything—I can’t sing or do sports. I’m not great at math, and though I love science, you won’t catch me in a lab. Working with my hands only lends itself to semi-ambitious pet projects, arts and crafts. I’m a decent cook, I love painting and molding clay, I enjoy drawing—but these are low-burn passions.
Writing is in the fire.READ MORE

Shauna Barbosa

I grew up in a Cape Verdean community in Roxbury, Massachusetts. As a young girl, I learned that Cape Verdeans were fetishized because of our mixed Portuguese heritage, our curly hair, and as a friend once put it, “the exotic look” in our eyes. I believed those things made us unique. Until I discovered our land of literature. Warm brutal buried dreams of the Atlantic Ocean.READ MORE