"A Wedding in Aleppo" by M. K. Martin
We are having a wedding in our restaurant. All morning, my younger brother, Hamid, has been scampering like a skinny, tail-less monkey, hanging lights in our cypress trees. We have the last standing cypress trees in Aleppo, so says my father. Baba spent the morning moving tables and chairs, dividing the main dining room so the women can be on one side and the men on the other. I help by hanging flowers and streamers from the walls. I hang stars and moons and suns from the ceiling. They’ll look down on us and bless my best friend’s marriage. At least they’re happy for her.
"It's Still Farther Than You Think" by Emily Varnell
Marianne’s palms stuck when she pressed her hands to the red laminate table. Orange juice, she guessed, from some boy dumping over one of those curvy bottles, too excited as he ripped into his burger. She imagined pudgy fingers trying to save fries from flying into laps.
"The Weight of Snowflakes" by Lois Melina
The snow fell easily, reflected in the headlights against the darkness of the highway. The large, flat flakes seemed almost make-believe to Debra, like Lux detergent floating down from the sky, the way they made it snow on TV. She trusted Stan to take the curves slowly, as unhurried as the snow, even though they’d left Indianapolis late, after Stan’s Friday stats class. It would be hours before they’d arrive at the cabin.
"Water in the Desert" by Clare Wilson
“I can see it—” Eva said. “How the skywill stretch like a blue sheet between the peaks.”
"I Will Return" by Samantha Kolesnik
I tell myself the trail is an amenity. It’s not something to be feared; it’s a blessing. Aprivilege. When my single friends from apartments downtown come over, they first comment on my pregnant belly and then on the trail.