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Anahita Mojahed Last week when I dropped off My daughter at her dad’s house, he came out holding something. He said, here. I asked, “what’s that?” He said: “it’s mace.” “Mace?” I asked. “For protection.” He said. I didn’t know what to say. “Thanks.” I guess. We’ve been divorced for over five years, what made him think about my safety all of a sudden? I was confused and didn’t know why he cared, why now? This incident took me back a few years. All the way back to the last time I received a Mace from a man. It was April 2001, My dad and I were standing in the front yard of our family home in the suburbs of Plano, Texas. It was two days after my wedding. I was moving to LA with my new husband and his mother who had come down for the wedding along with other family members. Most of the guests had left the day before except for my mother-in-law. She was flying back to LA with us. That day I was overcome with nostalgia and nervous excitement. I had never lived away

One with Ocean And now she- one with ocean tide and sun the dolphins, otter and seahorse play in ripples and curls and breaks they run She heard the wind whipped currents sing today She once believed earth, its green and its black in the depths of soil and thorn and mead She danced with Echo around Juno’s back turning seasons and the turnip and seed Then she fell deep into the gilded blue the mountains were waves on heaven's shore She, one with ocean, its breath its true untrampled like Shelley’s Naples seafloor Seabound, scurvy, for years no land in sight blissful sailors seized Brazil, sand and lies She-one with ocean, read by water’s light with Magellan’s weary, delighted eyes -R Aguilar

Annihilation at Seven By Suzanna Tereyan The Town of Be was silent. The dawn was beautiful. The yawning of the sun tenderly kissed its opulent flesh - flesh made of five-story buildings, medieval-looking paved streets, the rumble of shoe- heels, the onslaught of chafed coats, hats, umbrellas. Here, the cathedrals grew like weed in between the leafless tress and lacy clouds, their brick walls sucked the gray of the raindrops. The Town of Be was the place to be. Alex arrived to the Town of Be on Saturday, the day, when most townspeople weighed down with their prayers in the Central Cathedral of Holy Shudra. He was to stay here for at least six months to work on his business project at Dody institute of Pslinque.   His friend Greg has temporarily situated him in his closet-like one bedroom apartment and told him all about the unique traditions practiced in the lovely Town of Be. “We are serious here, Alex. Dead serious. We don’t like to laugh around here. It makes us sick, so

“Now and again there are tragedies so awful and so grand by reason of complication of virtues and vices that bring them about, that egoism and selfishness are forced to pause and are moved to pity; but the impression that they receive is like a luscious fruit, soon consumed. -Balzac Jaime Lira stood on a porch on Virginia Avenue in South Gate, California. The street was tree-lined and the afternoon breeze floated from the Pacific but disaster, it seemed to Jaime, was close. He glanced to the left and then to the right. His thoughts were of men pulling up in silver sedans with eviction notices, messengers delivering lawsuits, and a tow truck from the finance company pulling his car, the blue car with the dead battery with the note that hadn’t been paid for in months. Finally, his mind rested on his deceased wife, now gone ten years. The cigarette that he was toying with between his fingers he now placed in his mouth. Cigarette smoking, a vice he had abandoned years ago, he had