The initial hesitancy and anxiety has given way to curiosity and wanting to know more.  New contributors…new work…new opportunities to re-imagine what you thought was intriguing…we will offer nutritious brain food...soon enough…these are samples from the tasting menu! Here are snippets from additional summer/fall 2015 contributors: Jacqueline Henry Hill’s excerpt from “Detour” goes straight to your soul, another errand, same instructions. go straight there. don’t stop. don’t talk to nobody. stay away from those boys.   come right back. a dripping sticky moistness attacks   her hairline, dark visage,   patent leather-shiny and dewy damp. an adventuresome spirit whispers a daring detour, safety secured by villagers, seen and unseen. Dean Hathout’s opening lines from “Walking Past my Dignity ” To their cars and shops, to the flower mart They hurriedly scurry along While I sleep on the streets, next to my cart In places they say I don’t...

Once you peek through the door or window, and see something that tantalizes your spirit, the expected reaction is to push open that access point a little more…to see more…hear more…. Here is that opportunity from the forthcoming issue of aaduna.   Nancy A. Jackson’s “Train Trip”…an opening snippet: The train ride wasn’t fun, like Mama promised. Instead it was hot and dark and smelled like sewer Stuff when the basement flooded and sludge reeked in the house. We cried for food until no more tears would come And Mama tried to feed me from her breast, But fear had ravaged even that most pivotal of meals. Jennifer Singleton’s excerpt from “Never Again/Is Such a Long Time (The First Break-up)” Never again, again and never It seems such a long path now: I follow it down to the water’s edge Picking my way across the rocks and Debris that collected In the wild flowers that grow there Die one day, live on the next/die the next day Tiffany L. ...

Beraha Sellem will capture your heart and gently ease you into the the soft winds floating through your imagination.  Here is a snippet from her untitled piece:   The homeless musician of Champs Elysées Plays an old jazzy piece with a rusty saxophone. The pure sound of his music pierces my heart. It sounds like my cry when we fell apart. I stop and I stare at him; a tear falls down Against his cheek, but he keeps playing. I feel his body shaking and his brown Eyes, full of pain, are bringing Me back to you. Love is killing us. Slowly. Surely. ***   Eloísa Pérez-Lozano shapes thoughts into understandings many of us have experienced.  From her "Distractions During Spanish Mass." a priest speaks clumsy Spanish his “oh’s” turn into “ows” and “eh’s” turn into “ay’s,” stumbling on the precipice of holy words in an alien tongue like a toddler who’s learned how to walk, his moving fee...