Metropolis: A Boston Summer

Kathryn Bilinski

THE TRAIN FROM CONNECTICUT: This train chugs along relentlessly – burning, yearning, returning – completely unaware of the sleepy state of its inhabitants. But today I feel akin to my locomotive as it thunders along the well-beaten path of a…

Racism in Restaurants

Courtney Swain

“I don’t want that table,” my colleague said to me. “They’re Canadians. You can take them if you want.” Before I walked up to the new table to great the customers, I wondered briefly at how she’d instantly judged our…

The Promise

Kiel Gulick

  My first boss was an old slob, round in the middle, with a bald spot the size of a grapefruit on the back of his head. His name was Mike Palermo and the only job I could have seen…

Three Sonnets

Mark Simos

A sonnet is a form of rails and bars / And not much like the gossamer spider’s web / A foursquare scaffold toward the circling stars /

My Grandmother the Alien

Luis Lascano

Every grandmother is crazy in some way.  The reason for that may be related to the fact of simply having lived a long time.  The “aging element” becomes more evident when they are put in the situation of having grandchildren.…

A Strange Encounter

Michael Hazani

I’m standing in a crowded street, a few feet away from a staircase leading down to the underground station. People blur by, walking purposefully, avoiding eye contact. The sun is already high in the sky; it must be noontime, or…

The Hero

Sue Buzzard

CREATION The Hero was born on a cold winter’s morn in December.  The wind was blisteringly frigid and blowing to shake the eaves from the roof.  The weather was too dangerous to go out or for a doctor to come…

Still Waiting: Asian Americans in Music

Kevin Luu

America is known as the “land of opportunity,” and people from all around the world admire the supposed equality of U.S. society. Foreigners come searching for the “American dream,” wanting to take advantage of America’s system of “achieving the impossible.”…

Birding for Berkleeites: The Fenway Victory Gardens

Fred Bouchard

  … the wings alive!–excite the marbled snows… A fugue of wings darts down through the still air, A dancing passage of staccato notes, Now up, now down, and glancing everywhere, Glissandos of black caps and neat white throats. Here