Nonfiction

Perhaps this was inevitable, so flawed and warlike are we, though I beg any intelligent species who may find this to heed my words: Do not allow yourselves to be overcome by greed, hate or anger; live in peace as we could not.
 

Mary Veracka

The wind blows through my helmet into my ear. The swift push of the broken bar gets heavier every time like someone’s stuffing hand warmers in it. I rotate my skis and poles, hoping not to get them stuck under the chair.

The wind blows through my helmet into my ear. The swift push of the broken bar gets heavier every time like someone’s stuffing hand warmers in it. I rotate my skis and poles, hoping not to get them stuck under the chair.

One winter afternoon I was sledding with my family out on our hill. We had been at it for long enough that our cheeks had gotten rosey and our fingers slightly numb.

Shovel, shovel, shovel all we do is shovel. Winter in Vermont means lots of hard work in the cold, it also means having fun.

Our last presidential election was four years ago. I remember clearly what happened on the morning when the winner was announced. I was 10 years old, but I already knew how much was at stake.

                I bit the inside of my cheek as I shivered in the cold, my arms wrapped snugly around my double layered middle.

It was ok that I was missing my best friend's birthday. Really, I promise it’s fine. She promised it was fine. I still felt guilty, even though it wasn’t my fault.

New york city’s lights flash and flicker through the pouring rain, splashing heavily on the concrete in front of the train station, on the station’s walls, graffiti shouts at him, loud and angry written in black and colors, useless questions hoping t