sculpture by Tavares Strachan

by Sumitra Mattai

How to use:

• Squeeze a quarter-sized dollop into your palm, and lightly massage into your three-year-old daughter’s Afro as she sits in the bath.
• Hold small sections of her hair at the roots. Gently run through them with a wide tooth comb, like your husband showed you. She doesn’t scream when you do it this way, even as you comb through the more tangled, matted areas.
• When she’s lotioned and dressed in mismatched pajamas of her choosing, sit her down at your feet with a pile of chubby legos.

"Flare" collage by Tiffany Dugan

by Peter Allen

            Since the beginning of term, I had been haunted by a boy at school, a boy with dark hair, pale skin, and features that looked as though they had been cut and polished out of some kind of white marble that had only the faintest tinge of warmth. Not that he wasn’t animated: I often watched him moving quickly across the playing field, or walking, gregarious, laughing with his friends as they headed off campus during a free period, disappearing around the corner of a leafy street while I lingered behind,

"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

Art by Matt Bollinger

by Yuko Iida Frost

One night after work in December, I decided to hop on the express train to visit Masa unannounced. The restaurant where he worked was tucked behind a quiet street, off the Imperial Palace. The oldest in Kyoto, it used to serve the emperor until the capital moved to Tokyo, formerly called Edo, in the late nineteenth century. The street was dark. Their unassuming façade disguised its legendary reputation and looked more like an entrance to an old merchant’s house trying to hide his wealth. The sliding door was almost invisible with only two dimly lit paper lanterns hanging on both sides.