The Pensieve

  By Alizabeth Worley No doubt, more than one reader will be so affronted by my title that they have not only vowed against reading this first sentence but boycotted whatever magazine or book or website this essay finds itself in. I myself might feel so had I stumbled on such a title, except about Vienna sausages. But in this case, such a response would be a pity, for although this essay is undeniably about the pleasure of eating a corn dog, it is in another sense only about my pleasure eating a corn dog. In no way do I wish to inflict upon the reader's mind the pain of contemplating his or her own experience with corn dogs. You see, for me, the pleasure of a corn dog is only partially about the physical components: the fat, the baked batter, the honey crisped edge of the cornbread, the stick, the thin dribble of baked hard bread unavoidably left two-thirds down the stick (though since I'm thinking about it and have just finished two corn dogs responsible for the title, I migh

  By Taisha Ostler      Though the air was beginning to cool, the back of the van was still hot and humid; dust flew in through open windows and stuck to her face.  Her parents were speaking in hushed tones. She knew they were worried. She repeated the mantra that soothed her mind— “Books, there will be lots of books!”—and took hold of her Madre’s hand. Two months earlier they’d sold everything they could to pay a Coyote to bring them to “the promised land”. Her parents had painted a vibrant picture of third grade in the United States. Walls lined with books, a new puppy, and free lunch. The idea of going to school was the only thing that kept her moving on those cold desert nights as her feet shuffled along cactus-lined trails. Finally, after months of living in tents, trucks, and safe houses, Xochitl and her parents were only minutes from the U.S. Border. The Coyote pulled over. “This will be the most dangerous part of the journey,” he said. “You will need to split up.”  “That

By Jarom Petrich The past can be a cauldron of the most destructive brew, Like a vice it grips the future of those who boil and stew. For he who lets the injuries of things now long forgot by those who did the hurting is the one who’s in the pot. And no amount of boiling in a bath of hate and heat can heal a wound or broken heart or make its bitter sweet. The heart’s not just a muscle that pumps all day and night; it will also harbor memories of things that weren’t right. But unlike the other muscles that grow harder when they're stronger, a hardened heart holds little joy, and makes its owner suffer longer. Painful slights and grave injustices are carried there by choice. Why grant such precious lodging to another's hands or voice? Far better to forgive the hurt and walk within their shoes. Compassion comes from treading long the roads you didn’t choose. The greatest gifts will often hide down paths you’d never gladly trod, so you would surely miss them if not guided there by