Witbury Scribner awoke later on Monday morning than he did on Sunday morning, but in both cases it was rather early. The previous nights had not been at all easy. He had slept very little, what with all the noise and moving about. He had not expected to wake so early this particular morning, but it is very hard to stay asleep when you’re pulled out of your bed and thrown into your dresser.

            After gathering himself, Witbury walked to the bathroom with a great deal of difficulty. His normal morning ritual was all but normal this morning. It had not been normal over the past few mornings for that matter. In the shower, he had to try to wash his hair while lying on his back, with his head in the drain. While he was combing his hair, the mirror shattered before he could completely perfect his stylish middle part.

            Dressing, however, was quicker than normal since he had been wearing the same pants for three days now. They were heavily stained and odorous, but Witbury just looked at them and shrugged.

 Untie [by Adeola Iyiola]

            He was unwilling to slump over and call it a day as he usually did. He would usually give up on the day with the excuse that he wasn’t in his right writer’s mind. He told himself he would not force his writing instincts. He wanted to write something experimental, distinct. He would write with no inclinations, unconsciously, without an influencing voice. He wanted to capture the rhythm and beat of the New York street with his inner eye. He wanted no trace of himself and his life in his writing—he craved pure creativity.

            He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on nothing. He was silent. That way, he reasoned, intuition will guide his thoughts, but he was unprepared for the rush—he couldn’t exclude the view of the crowded masses on New York streets.  It energized him and he couldn’t relax with the view in mind. He remained still, the intrusive view in mind.

West Coast Ghost [by Wayne H.W Wolfson]

My valentine is a Chinese dream.

I know, to think of the times she was sad is best. Her red velvet jacket, worn only on special occasions. Eventually it had trapped the scent of my cigar, mixed with my cologne.

I once caught her holding it close to her face as if to absorb this ghost.

- I want to be alone, I say.
- Loneliness is not the answer.

I open my eyes. Why the absurd assumptions? I didn’t say I want to be lonely. I said I want to be alone. And since when am I looking for an answer?

 I get up and walk outside. There is a secret barrier between the indoor and the outdoor world. Even if you only go as far as your own porch, you still feel the absence of walls around you. Loneliness? It’s nothing more than the absence of people.

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Assimilation or Resistance: A Comparison of Two African American novels
These two novels are divergent in regards to time frame, family relationship, and class. The female protagonists are both young, African Americans but their lives are complete opposites. Before reading these texts, the only African American literature that I had read and studied have been slave narratives, such as Frederick Douglas' and Celia, A Slave. These texts showed me that even after emancipation, African Americans were still oppressed, first with segregation and then poverty.

HOW TO MAKE A BABY [Short Story by Robert Levin]

I was, I suppose you could say, in a PREpartum depression.

It started when my wife, Connie, decided it was time to have a baby. I was
thirty-one and she was twenty-eight, a circumstance which I reminded her in
my argument against the idea was no cause for alarm. But after she'd voiced
her ambition--and thereby made it real to herself--the achievement of
motherhood became an obsession for her and she would not leave me alone
about it. Finally, after several months, my reluctance to enlist in her
project compelled her to resort to a not so veiled threat: "Steven," she
said. "Either we have a baby now or I'm going to leave you."