Aritifice or Intelligence by E. H. Jacobs

Photo with small robot on top of work desk
 

So, I found myself in a restaurant with my wife, two friends, and one friend’s first cousin whom I had not previously met. After drinks and appetizers, the cousin, a well-educated, intelligent, funny, and charming lawyer and real estate investor, learned that I had recently published a novel and was in the process of editing a second for publication. After hearing that each novel had taken me about ten years to write, edit and find a publisher, he proposed that, to produce more in a shorter period of time, I upload my writings into an … Continue reading Aritifice or Intelligence by E. H. Jacobs

Final Thoughts by Christopher Ghattas

Time laps photo of stars in sky above mountains
 

Christopher Ghattas is the 1st place winner of Streetlight’s 2025 Essay/Memoir Contest Whenever someone tells me that they, too, are dying, my advice is always the same: keep it to yourself. I don’t mean dying with urgency. In the case of a blocked windpipe, or when a foreign object has infiltrated a major artery, I say go ahead and call someone. I’m talking about the slow kind of dying, from this or from that; any number of genetic disorders or acquired diseases qualify, and no one culprit is more special than any other. And since … Continue reading Final Thoughts by Christopher Ghattas

Vacations are great, but . . . by Emily Littlewood

Photo of beach at dawn, with pink and purples in sky and reflecting off water
 

We are going on the trip of a lifetime and the two parts of my personality are at war. Anxiety/control vs. procrastination/let it ride. It’s really fun. To celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary, the husband and I are going back to the Isle of Man, for the annual TT motorcycle races. We have a year to plan everything; unfortunately all this time means there’s plenty of opportunity for things to go wrong and for changes to have to be made. So I take a few breaths and try to focus on something else, anything else … Continue reading Vacations are great, but . . . by Emily Littlewood

Shadows of their Bones by Jonathan Chibuike Ukah

Pencil drawing of bones
 

Yesterday, I ate a lion for free, an elephant for the asking; and a leopard for my pleasure. I ate when I was not hungry, hunger stitched me into pieces and I could not eat. Hawkers and market women pleaded with me to accept a river, with two skies for a discount. If I decided to pay for an ocean, even the sea would flow along. Wherever my shadow fell, there the world was my limit. Now, the cub of a lion hides from me and the young elephant sharpens his teeth; though I was … Continue reading Shadows of their Bones by Jonathan Chibuike Ukah

Talk To Strangers by Bree Luck

Photo of two women, smiling and holding drinks
 

Two years ago, in the pocket of time between Thanksgiving and the onslaught of holiday chaos, I spent a week with my grandmother, Mimi, at her home on St. Simons Island. She had been feeling a little off—her words, not mine—and welcomed the company. Under her astute and vigilant direction, I cooked her favorite dinners, recorded a podcast episode about her life, and rubbed her feet while we watched TV procedurals in the evenings. Mostly, she rested. But on Thursday she got antsy. She wanted to go out to dinner. So we did. We ended … Continue reading Talk To Strangers by Bree Luck

At the Concourse-End of the Sky Bridge and Can I Pay Next Month What I Owe This Month?, 2 poems by Ben Sloan

aerial shot of airport concourse, pink and white floor
 

At the Concourse End of the Sky Bridge Discombobulated by my inability to sleep on a plane arcing across the wind-tossed top edge of Europe, the next thing I know we are making an unscheduled stop and I’m in a stop-and-start line where each passenger is being greeted in their native language by a woman who, when I get to her (she’s smiling) says to me, Welcome Good Morning, and I walk away marveling at not only the urge I am feeling to return to the back of the line so I can hear her … Continue reading At the Concourse-End of the Sky Bridge and Can I Pay Next Month What I Owe This Month?, 2 poems by Ben Sloan

Don’t Arrive Before You Get There by Deborah M. Prum

Photo of three ambiguous, differently colored shapes of people
 

My writing mantra used to be, Fine is good enough. I made sure whatever I sent out was the best it could be. However, I worked fulltime and was the primary caretaker for three children. When I finished a manuscript, I checked for issues, then hit “send” before anyone came down with croup, required a ride to music lessons, or needed four zillion forms signed. I never lingered at the finish line, which meant some manuscripts went out not quite fully polished. You’ve heard of the tyranny of the urgent? Those years, I happened to … Continue reading Don’t Arrive Before You Get There by Deborah M. Prum

‘Round Midnight by Terry Huff

Photo of hands playing a piano
 

                                                     for Thelonious Monk I have a table for one at The Five Spot Cafe. Monk is on stage with Miles Davis and Art Blakey. No one in his band disturbs the jazz genius, or waits for him to speak to them when his mood is no brighter than his E Flat Minor. His melodies are the words his black fingers play on black and white keys for a black and white crowd, with a band always ready to follow Monk’s lead. He may change a play at the line of scrimmage, sending Blakey in … Continue reading ‘Round Midnight by Terry Huff

Stop the Car by Scott Weaver

Photo of tree-lined road
 

1842 On a Midwestern tour to drum up support for a second presidential run, Martin Van Buren had the bad fortune of passing through Plainfield, Indiana. A year and a half before, Van Buren had been swept out of office. The Panic of 1837, the worst economic depression in the country’s short history, had so frightened and upset voters that they’d elected the sixty-eight-year-old war hero William Henry Harrison, sending Van Buren out into the wilderness, political and otherwise. The people of Plainfield had a local beef with Van Buren. Tucked away in in what … Continue reading Stop the Car by Scott Weaver

On Writing A Condolence Letter by Trudy Hale

Photo of crows sitting atop a fence
 

I find it hard to write a condolence letter, not a note, but a letter. And three condolence letters wait for me. They sit like black crows on a fence, cawing, scolding. I delay, stall, guilt-gnawed and sometimes, I admit, never write the letter in time. Instead, I email or call. Not the same! My fear is that my condolence will be a minefield of cliches. I saved a letter from the Palliative Care Social Services counselor at the Motion Picture and Television Home sent after my husband died five years ago. I remembered it … Continue reading On Writing A Condolence Letter by Trudy Hale

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