Zitomira’s Gift

Zoe Smith

The ring my mother wore, a golden heart upon her little finger where it lived after the fire kindled by a cigarette that only she and grandfather survived.

Inside, her mother slept in drunken bliss, succumbing to her accidental flame. Though from within grief’s hardened chrysalis, still, my parents gifted me her Slavic name.

Apparently, she’s where I get my blonde from, crooked corners of my smile defaulted and golden heart salvaged from a smoking heap.

Perhaps before the northern morning dawn, or maybe on late evenings alone, her malted breath soured while she drifted off to sleep.

Women Stay Winning

Julia Kane

January is Ephemeral

Lillian Lemme

My sister calls me to tell me that everything is ephemeral (though she doesn’t put it like that). She can’t believe it’s already half-way through January, and she doesn’t want to go to school, and she misses me, and what should she wear tomorrow? It won’t be as cold as it was today. I learned the meaning of the word ephemeral two years ago, but here it has become more than a word: it’s the feeling of how fleeting every moment seems to be. I talk too much. I don’t talk enough. I write too much and I’m not writing enough - there’s something I’m trying to grasp that I can’t yet put into words. I cracked my screen protector just over the camera so every time I try to take a picture of myself it comes out slightly distorted. I’m paranoid it’s not actually your birthday but I call you anyway. It goes to voicemail and I don’t leave a message but I text to say I’m thinking about you. I am. I hope it’s enough. I make tea in the microwave and sing to myself, and cry and stop crying, and look in the mirror and go out and stay in, and work and watch TV, and eat and get tired of eating, and walk and walk and walk until I wonder how it is that I ended up here. I can’t believe it’s already half-way through January and I live at school and I miss you and I’ll wear the same thing tomorrow that I did today. It’s dark and I say goodnight to my sister and I hang up and I think about how many goodbyes I’ve said knowing that there will be another hello (I’m learning that it doesn’t make the goodbye any easier, only the hello sweeter).

Sunset Weeds

Hope Alex