In this issue of The Acentos Review, writers pull at the visceral tender parts of the reader with a brutality only the most gifted are allowed.  They push us into throngs captivated by the symbolic innocence of a child.  They grip with the aged strength of the dying used to survival.  They prod us into considerations of new identities.  They bite like vicious fire ants, eager for freedom in a bottle stopped by flesh.  They wind around our hearts with longing.  These are the harbingers.  Who knows what will come, but what is now thrills.