by Kevin Grauke

Photo by specphotops on Unsplash

This story isn’t mine to tell, but here I am telling it, and without even the courtesy of asking her permission. To dilute my guilt, I think of a mother’s blood, how it continues to pulse through the chambers of her child’s heart long after the umbilical cord, thick as a beefy thumb, has been severed. And since this is true of blood, maybe it’s true of stories, too, since nothing seems more vital within us than the stories we’ve absorbed from those whose blood courses through us.

by Isaac James Richards

Photo courtesy of the Author

            I visited my grandpa’s grave again yesterday. Easter Sunday. I cannot think of him without thinking of Jerusalem. How the two have fused in my memory. It’s been four years.  

            I was in Jerusalem on a research trip when the pandemic hit. My institution demanded that I return immediately, more than a month early. When I got on the plane and slipped into my seat, there was a quote floating on the screen in front of me.

By Jan Karlo Lopez

photo by Jeylan Jones

It’s your movie, write off whom you want. Tell everyone, including yourself, that they died. Anyone who asks understands because ironically the only guidance given on a breakup is to not speak on the break-up. Your friend that’s fucking their ex will implore you not to fuck yours. Your friend who drunk dials their ex will suggest you block their number. Your friend who cheats will pray you find someone new and settle down like they did. Your friend that’s a bigger piece of shit than you will beg you to forget about your ex while they try to fuck them behind your back.