by H. E. FISHER
Ocean. This is my autobiography, so be hush.
I started in the wet of my mommy's belly and swam in you, raced, swallowed you. My skin burned in your silver reflection. I dove into your churn and you delivered me.
by HEATHER TOURGEE
The same carbon molecules that lodged themselves in the cell walls of prehistoric swamps, pressed and churned and chemically mutilated to become bituminous, or maybe anthracite, have been burned, released, and sunk into my own flesh and accounts for a significant portion of my own embodiment.
by ELI J. KNAPP
It’s a common, yet chronic, disease. The symptoms are straightforward, but the cure, if there is one, isn’t. It goes like this: If you see something cool, the next time out—perhaps even years later—you expect to see it where you did that very first time.
by JENNY RUTH
Photography by WILLIAM C. CRAWFORD
Burning garbage is not illegal around here. I checked. It’s not illegal in most of the county, unless you live in a town where garbage removal is a municipal service.
by ASHIA AJANI
The slopes and nicks of Denver seem to change almost imperceptibly. A catfish joint goes out of business. A neighborhood-run gardening initiative is abandoned and overrun with weeds and empty beer cans. Rent goes up seventy-five dollars. Then another hundred. Then another.
by KELLY GARRIOTT WAITE
Blind Cat sleeps on a rust-colored cushion in a wicker chair in the sunroom. He's on his side, his straight orange back facing me, his face steeping in the sunshine that streams in through the windows.
by CHRISTOPHER JOHNSON
When I was in my thirties, I was an Angry Young Man. I was wrathful, irate, mad, sore as a crab, waxy, hot under the collar, raging, fiery, wrought-up, fuming, foaming, in a red-hot passion, in a pucker, in a huff, in high dudgeon, infuriated, furious, hopping mad, rabid, foaming at the mouth.
by CANDACE R. CRAIG
What Faustian bargain was made to set a river ablaze? How apocalyptic it must’ve seemed in the children’s eyes. But it didn’t often strike their parents this way. For most, this was the price of industry . . .
by REBECCA BEVANS
And I, small being caught in this woolly mess, retreated further into myself, until I was a speck within the body of a girl who was still somehow crouched in lightning position on a sleeping mat inside a flimsy tent at the bottom of Tin Cup Pass.
by SEAN PRENTISS
Each one of us shouting our two-minute notice, each crying what
we most want from that other world [a bacon cheese burger] [a
hot shower] [a swim in a river] [a long night’s sleep] [a boy- or
girlfriend nearby] until this cacophony of quitting fills the air
& steals, for one moment, all our savage fatigue.
by EMILY K. MICHAEL
In darkness, the audience rises, applauding the last performance of the evening. Before I can bang my hands together with wild abandon, I slide my guide dog’s leash back over my arm,into the crook of my elbow. My companion rises from his prone position and assumes a dignified sit, scanning from left to right. He recognizes the applause as a signal for our imminent departure.
by NICHOLAS LITTMAN
When I stepped into a commercial maple forest for the first time, I thought I had come into the wrong place. The maples were there—gray and leafless in their winter drab—but it was what stretched over the snow between them—the miles of black and blue plastic—that made me uneasy. It wasn’t their ugly straight lines or their artificial tautness that unsettled me. It was the idea of what they were replacing.