Bruce McAllister

I am the dreamer, a girl, one who reads too much and whose imagination is, in the words of her parents and teachers, "way too wild." In my dream I am walking down a hill on an ancient cobblestone path toward the seashore. It isn't the country I live in. There aren't as many trees, the sea is smaller and bluer, and the sun is impossibly bright. On either side of me lie the walls and little houses of a fishing village. Everything is made of stone and stucco, and I am not a girl, but a woman -- a woman I may or may not ever be.

A breeze starts up, moving laundry on a line not far from me, and I hear a baby's cry. I look up and there in the bright sky see a glint of metal. It is a missile, I know, because that's what the glint means. It carries in it something that will bloom like the heart of a star, and once it has bloomed, bring night to day.

As I watch, the metallic thing explodes in the distant sky and the bloom begins.

I kneel, close my eyes, stop my breath, stop even my heart, stop the breeze and the baby’s cry, so that all in the world is still. I have never done this before, I tell myself, and yet of course I have -- because I am the woman, the one I may or may never be, not the girl who is dreaming it.



Publisher's Note

Rational Anthem Ivan Jenson

Just Like That Jennifer Mills Kerr

Dancing In The Shadows of Greatness Dr. Ernest Williamson III

Life slips Allison Whittenberg

The Dream Bruce McAllister

Debate in Seasons Dr. Ernest Williamson III

Ell Kyle Bradstreet

warm broken cookies Jessica Provencio

egomaniac Dr. Ernest Williamson III

Photo Circa 1969, The Art of Redaction Scott T. Starbuck

At The Special Olympics Sandra Ervin Adams