by Alan Swyer Thanks to a combination of persistence, conniving, and luck, I was in a privileged position in Paris: writing the Paris section of a travel guide.

by Alan Swyer The first time Ike Turner told me I’d been sent to him by God, I should have known enough to bolt.

by Ann Swann February in West Texas, the grass is scabby, mesquites thin and low. Here and there a slab of gray stone breaks the skin of the earth as though breaching for air.

by Adriana Gardella “Somebody’s going to have to share,” I said to the eight utensils assembled in the dishwasher’s silverware basket, one per compartment. I towered over them, dangling a recently used cereal spoon.

by Alan Swyer My first music video was neither planned nor predictable. In fact, it ran counter to the conventional trajectory whereby directors begin their careers by making music videos or commercials, then graduate to feature films.

by George Drew “What is syntax?” That was my opening question to my Introduction to Poetry section one memorable first day of class.

by Julie McGalliard The cocktail waitress in the logo is obviously based on the stereotypical sexy gal truck flaps. I can’t remember when I first saw one of those, but I first noticed them in Thelma and Louise, when the title characters make fun of it.

by M. M. Adjarian From the start, the world told my father he was an accident no one especially wanted to happen. Yet life still managed to offer him compensations.

by Mary Ann Cooper In August of 1971, I was twenty years old and miserable. All of my friends were away at college while I was still at home with my family.

by Jordan Rizzeri When I pass the large, green sign on the New York State Thruway that says “Leatherstocking Region,” I know I am halfway.

by Juan Zapata You come from a land of strife. A land that is broken and ruled by fear—dead men, women, and children hang from bridges and streetlamps. Gunshots are heard outside the home and people get beheaded for sport.

by Angela Kubinec While optimistically dreading the future, I eat cornbread, collard greens, a dish known as Hoppin’ John, and some kind of pork—preferably hog jowls that were boiled in the pot full of collards.

by Andrea Hansell On a too-warm day in late May, I waited in a Maryland Department of Motor Vehicles branch office holding my dead husband’s license plates in my lap.