Month: January 2021

Undocumented Football by David A. Romero

When life throws everything at you Don’t drop the ball “Don’t drop the ball” “Blue 42 Set Hike!” A brown quarterback’s fingers Tighten around the white laces Of a football Roosevelt vs. Garfield They meet today Upon an annual battleground Where local legends Spell rivalry In defensive and offensive formations Upon this old field In this dirty stadium Football sounds a lot like Boyle Heights Like East L.A. Like years of pride and history “Sounds like Roosevelt is in motion Number 42 Miguel Is with them Crossing the line of scrimmage Clad in red and yellow His muscles tell a story” 20 Miguel has always been running Running from la migra Las placas Everyone who wants to Stop him Ask him, “.Donde estan sus papeles?” Where are your papers? Miguel’s too fast though How fast? Too fast Too fast for borders Laws Checkpoints Dogs Too fast for fences Ditches Detention centers And walls Definitely too fast for the fool Unfortunate enough to be D’ing up on him now Through it all Under the glare of …

The Trip By Karen Hamling

After two hours on the road, I see the wooden ‘Welcome to Nakusp’ sign. A big blue ‘N’ on a white background. The sign is weathered and worn and very much like how I feel as I travel highway 6 into town. “N” for Nakusp or “N” for numb? It is the middle of September and fall has just arrived. I spent last night in Nelson, to decompress before I headed home. I need a break to help me reset. The drive has been spectacular with the maple leaves turning to reds, oranges, yellows while the birch, larch, and trembling ash turning to various shades of yellow signs of winter approaching. I sigh with relief. It has been a difficult journey. I drive down the winding highway where lights glow in various homes and it looks cozy.  I turn right at Anderson’s gas station.  It has been in the Anderson family for years with a well-lit gas pump area a bright beacon, welcoming me home.   It is on the verge of dusk as I pull …

The Writers’ Group by Alan Ross

          On the outskirts of the tiny village of Nakusp, in South Central British Columbia, sat an old barn with a gambrel roof.  Once, it had been red but the paint had worn off and now the dry, weathered wood was ripe to be remade into chic furniture and sold to the seasonal visitors who came every summer to enjoy the uncrowded hiking trails, hot springs and lakes that encircled the isolated town. Many years ago, a photo of the barn had graced ‘April’ in the United Church Calendar. More recently, the Volunteer Fire Chief  had decried the barn a fire hazard but, at least so far, it had been left untouched. Citizens of the village disliked change and most agreed that it would be a shame if anything were to happen to the barn.           The Nakusp writers’ group met at the public library, a busy little place that boasted an admirable collection of popular books that were actually borrowed and returned, again and again. The group was comprised of eight members. Meetings  were …