On "My Sweet Warrior" by David Erlewine (517 words) ****

I was never one of the tough guys. In fact, I remember being locked out of school-yard football games by friends worried I'd get hurt. I guess the fact that people actually looked out for me was good, rather than taking opportunity to beat me up. I learned to be gracious via my parents. I went to a private school where beatings weren't so common. I value all those things.

And yet, what if I had been shown how to stand up for myself better? What would I have come to? What would my childhood have been like? Perhaps it would have been like that of the kid in this story. If so, I don't think I missed out on much. This is one deluded, wrong-headed parent, but one who clearly loves his kid all the same, and in that is the stories sad humor. Read it here at Word Riot.

On "This Is Me American Style" by Maria Deira (1598 words) ****

Deira calls up a Mexican man here--one who wants, on some level, not to be Mexican, not to be the person he is, wants not to be working in an office, not to be lonely. I'm reminded a little of Oscar Zeta Acosta here if Acosta hadn't decided to become part of the brown revolution, if instead he'd climbed into himself and tried to be Anglo and failed to succeeded. This man wars against himself, which makes his battle against others all the more hopeless. Read the story here at Word Riot.

On "Red Wine and Pizza" by Christy Effinger (298 words) ***

Effinger's story works off of disparate jealousies and desires. At less that three hundred words, she still manages to squeeze in four--no, five--different sets of observations and wants. This dinner party doesn't sound like much fun, but it sure is interesting inside the heads of the various guests. Read the story here at Word Riot.

On "Chemistry" by Lauren Becker (1859 words) ***

Here's a familiar story about a woman who masks her loneliness in a multitude of ways: anonymous sex, an obsession with studying, an imaginary friend. What makes this story a little different, though, is the degree of honesty with which the narrator tells this story. It's not terribly pleasant. Read the story here at Word Riot.

On "You Wake Up And The Virgin Mary Statue On Your Dresser Is Crying Blood" by J. R. Angelella (934 words) ****

Here's a writing exercise gone amuck, which is of course what makes this short piece so interesting. Rather than taking the exercise and running with it--once--Angelella takes it and runs with it once, twice, thrice, four times . . . And each time, it's fascinating and crazy interesting. Somehow, each little piece manages to have a certain feel of completion on its own. Would I like it had he developed one story, made into one long whole? Quite possibly. It's an interesting first line. And certainly, that might have led to a deeper emotional connection, but I don't know if the longer story would have been as much fun. This is like a video game you haven't yet discovered all the clues in yet. New things pop up with each new beginning. Read the story here at Word Riot.

On "Oh Girl" by Corey Zeller (940 words) ***

Remember when you last told your friend about this time that the two of you did something? Yeah, you remember. Happens all the time, right? That wistfulness for bygone days. I remember when I got out of high school and started beginning every sentence with "I remember . . ." and every question with "You remember . . . ?" I loved high school, this despite all the stress that high school inevitably bears down on a kid, and for the first several years afterward, really, until I left California, I missed it. Now, now, I don't remember it. Or if I do, it doesn't seem nearly so grand as it did then, in those few years right after, when the life that follows seems so utterly disappointing, utterly lacking in the fulfillment of all those hopes one has when younger.

Corey Zeller's "Oh Girl" is a story about remembering, a story about telling your friend about what you remember--or asking your friend about it. Only there's a sadness here, because, as with all such sentimental memories, something is missing, something that means that remembrance will never be something you'll have again. Though my life has never been as risky as this story's narrator's, I, too, am one of the lucky ones who has gone on to be able to ask, "Remember?" and to know that for some, the answer is no because they're no longer there to answer. Read the story here at Word Riot.