By Ann Gustavson At least it wasn’t in a school, I think as I stand up and Walk to the window in my classroom. But how is this an okay thought? At least. How many more “at least” thoughts will I have to have? I look out at the blue Connecticut sky Trying to settle … More The Day After Thousand Oaks 

By Charles Rafferty 1. Children Could Become Maniacs (Columbine) That’s what I learned from the radio as my daughter drank her bottle. 2. Question (Sandy Hook) What kind of gun laws would we have if 26 senators died crouching in their offices while the sunlight was dazzling the pens upon their desks? 3. Why You Died on a … More Triptych

By Albert Lee we are angry                                                                                                   … More Our Park Our Land

By Leah Brennan I hold it in my hand like a baseball— the glass apple paperweight inscribed with my name. I am trained to scan for objects, to weaponize the room, to lock the door from the outside, dismantle the workspace, reassign it to the front line, a hedge of student-chairs, impossibly small desks attached … More Paperweight

  By Hakim Bellamy Son, if you came up missing your hood would not be able to find you. Unable to pick you out in a crowd, or a police lineup. If you made it that far. If they even came looking at all. Don’t be anonymous, child. Make sure you stick out like a … More Don’t Be Anonymous, Son

By Anna Leigh Knowles Years after the shooting, the local high schools decided to merge our theaters together for a musical. Columbine wanted to rebuild its reputation. I stayed in the background, sang in the choir. After a late rehearsal, one of the Columbine boys gave a small group of the cast a tour of … More Stage Production

By Eloísa Peréz-Lozano I want to shrink you down, tuck you between my breasts and rib cage, settle you into the valleys between bones, held in place by my supple underness, never explored. I want to protect you from madmen in schools, concerts, and churches angry at the cards they were dealt that they didn’t … More Hiding You Under Me

By Crystal Ignatowski   My father has a gun. I don’t know where it is. It must be somewhere. Maybe in his dresser drawer. Maybe underneath his bed. We don’t speak of it. The gun is not meant to kill. We don’t believe in that. I repeat, We don’t believe in that. Outside, frost butters … More A Gun Is Not A Father Or A Husband Or A Saint

By D.R. James —for Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School Fourteen chairs loiter, emptied, no young bodies adjusting for the next lesson, hand-raising, class-clown antic, contemplative talk, pat show of teen contempt, rhythm beaten with pencil, palm, bouncing knee, jouncing heal, wise-crack, step in the impossible problem never to be solved. Instead, more of the same … More Surreal Expulsion