My father died in a car accident in a blizzard when I was nine. The next winter, my mother took my brothers and I to the Baja, where we camped on the beach for a month or so. My fifth-grade teacher tasked me with keeping a journal while I was gone.
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This morning, something in my doubt dissolves.The footprint or the transparency of floors.The wells open up. Sometimes, the wells close again.The added materials haven’t allowed the decision anything.Footsteps must swell, take up bone. The wells must rise.—from Marissa Davis’ translation of Stéphanie Ferrat’s “Skyside” Volume 65, Issue 3 (Fall 2024) Tell us . . .
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There is an old joke I heard one winter,one popular among the farmersfrom Trøndelag to Nord-Norge: two deer run along the railroad.One says to the other, we have to get offthese tracks and into the forest.—from Michael Lee’s “Norway’s Iron Road,” Volume 65, Issue 2 (Summer 2024) Tell us about one of the . . .
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Russ Brings all the wrong books to my hospital room, which is tucked into a corner of the birthing center. How was he to know I’d already finished that novel? Back at our house, all my books flounder in inscrutable piles. I hadn’t arranged them to be legible to anyone else. Of . . .
Read MoreTell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.The first piece I remember writing was a short story I wrote for school when I was about seven or eight. It was about a little girl (definitely me) who went on tropical vacation with her family (definitely my family) and, while on . . .
Read MoreThe last spring shall come, the last summer, too,so no to politicians peddling impotence, no to preachers stitching our lips into eclipse, we wantthe misfits, the women unafraid of descent,—from “Self-Portrait Lined By Sándor Csoóri,” Volume 65, Issue 2 (Summer 2024) Tell us about one of the first pieces you wrote.Jackie & . . .
Read More© Joanna Eldredge Morrissey In three interconnected plays, The Till Trilogy is an imagined, speculative exploration of the epic of Emmett Till and the birth the modern Civil Rights Movement, the events as seen from the perspective of the youth, himself, in his final days of life, as a specter during the . . .
Read MoreIn the village we let the nail go deep into the foot until picking up tetanus likea surprise. We watch each other live, we turn to see every car that passes: it’swinter’s fierce dance as it wraps us in its cure for lethargy. I don’t know what it will take to be . . .
Read MoreNo form of art can express a life quite like the novel. No art form charts the lives of individuals—encounters, challenges, and relationships—as successfully as the book-length work of fiction. Perhaps this is because of the amount of detail provided for characters and their situations, which allows us to truly experience as they do, but . . .
Read MoreProfile of a solitary man, in shirt sleeves, whose pose ofsharpening a blade suggests he is a knife grinder. Oftencalled The Spy, since he seems to be listening to some-thing attentively, it is thought to depict the man whodiscovered the Catiline conspiracy; at other times of dayhe appears to be Cincinnatus, at . . .
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