Once upon a time, I was a university student with writing dreams, so I bought my first computer. ‘Twas an Apple Macintosh with an Apple laser printer. And it came with an Apple loan. I paid low low low monthly payments in order to build up a credit score necessary for a future that would be mostly about managing debt because America.

I was pretty sure that this expensive upgrade was immediately worth it. After years of writing four lines at a time on my word processor’s digital screen, I could see a whole project at a glance. But, the icing on this pricey creative Apple fritter was discovered only by making mistakes. I discovered that I could add customizable alert sounds!

Every miss-key could be programmed. And so, without any hesitation, the multitone digital clang was immediately replaced by Patrick Stewart’s voice.

O Star Trek captain, my captain! The once and future Admiral Jean-Luc Picard! Who better to motivate my writing, even as I made error after error. After all, upon fixing a writing issue, only he could declare, “Make it so!”

Needless to say, the news this week that the British actor had died hit me hard. For some, he was Professor X in the X-Men universe first. For others, he may even have been Ebeneezer Scrooge, or a giant of the stage. But like me, and for so many in the Star Trek fandom, the loss of my generation’s Enterprise captain stings.

The losses are coming a bit more frequent these days and I’m trying to be more sensitive to the elders whose creative and personal lives are continually in a state of memorial. I remember my grandma once telling us she had a funeral to go to just about every week until, she said, “there aren’t many of us left.” She lived into her 90s, and the weight of saying goodbye so many times had significant weight. A weight we can’t ever really prepare for.

So, as I say goodbye to artists whom I’ve never even met, I’m aware of the goodbyes that quietly threaten to have more direct emotional impact.

This is where thinking about the Fall Issue comes in. I’m lucky to have a small connection to some wonderful artists who keep us in stories. Even though our interaction as editor and writer is brief, it feels impactful. The work that we publish together may not have the universal reach of Star Trek’s science fiction, but for our own little corner of the universe, on this planet, we connect online for 100 words. This tiny space is somewhere we’ve never been, even if it feels familiar. Here, we co-construct our experience.

In this issue, I’m particularly thankful for the inspiration and connection present in our writers’ work. Humanity isn’t lost in these universes, but in each micro I see fresh ways to tangle and detangle our emotional investment in life itself. Meg Pokrass’ “Infestation” doesn’t fear the grounding importance of a cultural reference amidst the overwhelm of unwanted visitors. Sherrie Flick’s, “Cherry Pie” explores a saccharine rejection of sorts. Is it triumphant as well? In Jill Kitchen’s, “wound” and “minor chords” we experience sensory overload while wolves howl their songs. Sumaiya Aftab Ahmed’s, “A Rush-Hour Rush,” revives Craigslist’s Missed Connections with grace. Nora Maynard searches closer to home in “The Only Known Photograph of Your Great-Grandmother.” Kasumi Parker’s, “The Volcanologist” takes on the gravity of knowledge. In our final micro, Margaret Dunn explores the surprising and slippery nature of our abilities as we age in “My Mother Remembers, Act V, Scene V.”

In many ways, these micros are a call to action. Our writers have given us ample opportunities to emotionally vibrate. To live our reading dreams.

Or as Patrick Stewart’s most famous character has said repeatedly (to me on my first computer, and to Number One and his helmspeople seeking the final frontier): “Engage.”