Nonfiction
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Watch Us Drift, Watch Us Fly
The F-14 Tomcat Aerial Combat Guide for Parents of Children Who Stutter and Cope Through Fixation with Military Aircraft
The Elves of Bucha
Hyphenated Howl
Grandfather Clause: Tracing Ancestral Privilege to a Century-Old Crime Scene
grand·fa·ther. (verb) [with object] . . . 2. to permit to continue under a grandfather clause: As in, to pass down privilege . . .— from Grandfather, A Van. Jordan I. From behind the Deer Lodge County Courthouse, in Anaconda, Montana, Mount Carmel and Mount Olivet Cemeteries command a broad view of a narrow vale. Joseph Furshong and Sam …
A Sense of Where You Are: The Great American Eclipse of 2017
Marta
The call came in from a dude ranch several miles from the border. The caller said that a Spanish-speaking woman had wandered onto their property: exhausted, dehydrated, and weeping. They didn’t know what to do with her, but they didn’t want to call the Border Patrol, who had sent agents on ATVs and a helicopter …
An Intergenerational Journey Through Food Insecurity
Our Ancestors knew that healing comes in cycles and circles. One generation carries the pain so that the next can live and heal. One cannot live without the other, each is the other’s hope, meaning & strength. ― Gemma B. Benton, Then She Sang A Willow Song: Reclaiming Life and Power with the Ancestors Tuesday morning. I’m …
There Are Selkies on the Salish Sea
An old man walks down the beach with a young boy, his grandson. It is Christmas and they are wet and cold. An icy wind blows off the Salish Sea and soaks them through their fleeces. Still, the young boy bounds about the wet sand like an elk calf at his first snow. He is …
Bizarre, A Life
Strafford , MissouriIn the back of the RV, my sister and I sit up to watch Fate slide toward us. It is night, a full moon, and the historic southern Missouri ice storm of 1990 has transformed our new neighborhood into one big skating rink. We are trapped in the parked RV. Our parents …
Grief’s World
We’re in January, my bicycle and I. Her steel frame and my enamel one flash past stoplights in our small town, my hands numbing to her handlebars as wind sweeps across our bodies. We are grieving, or rather, I am grieving, and she is pulling me through. Together we pedal and pedal our perfect action-reaction, …
