Today was no different, Max going ahead, me hanging back. Max had always gone ahead—braver, stronger; and, me, following, trying to keep up, swallowing my fear, sometimes using all my power to keep myself from turning and running. The only reason I didn’t—the only reason, I never had—was that more than the demons and rats I was sure awaited in every dark place Max took us, I didn’t want Max to know I was afraid.

That day, we woke early while the grass was still wet enough to stick to our feet. We walked through Ayer’s field just pass the school, crossed downtown, and headed out toward the interstate highway. Max told me he knew of a fenced-in tunnel just a mile or so down the way that went under the whole thing—all eight roads and under the grass in between the north and south sides, and that if the water wasn’t too high, we could walk all the way through and come out just below Cramersburg. My mom would’ve killed me if she knew what I was doing, but Max laughed and said she’d never find out.

We climbed the fence and headed toward the tunnel, Max leading out. We walked into the damp gray cylinder, the light behind becoming a distant escape; the other side’s light, too far away to see. And, in that moment I realized that what I was really afraid of most of all, more than getting in trouble, or even more than dying on one of Max’s crazy-ass adventures, was losing Max as my best friend.

Photographer: Chip Cutlan
Prose Author: graecellen

remember…

shambling under a fire-snap sky
made shivering spring by the pumpkin dance
group weather a grey-dream shine
on that butter beach of shell fashion and child suits
and she with timely costume and apple smile
demanded I create a cloud from
ant bloom and dark petals

remember to believe…

back, when I was loved
in that bird summer
in that squirrel year
an after-flower dead at its birth

remember to believe in something…

why would we sing?
life but a radius of forty miles
collecting Nature on our shoes
as it rendered our golden dust grey

remember to believe in something
more than this

Photographer: brenda
Prose Author: paul-loebig

i want to…
sing.
please let me in.
all doors to all freedoms
for All.
once and for all.
Shhh…
you can hear the amber wave’s song, and
then you can see the majesty rising purple in the dawn’s…
early light?
i really ache to not want to leave here…but sometimes
i do
dream of a gentler place.
pilgrim that i am, i will likely stay-
try to contribute anyway-
make my freedom ring…

Photographer: Will Pollock
Prose Author: Brenda Knosher

from blank white plains to find a trail
that leads off to another trail
twisting, turning, the dark smooth surface
lessens the omnipresent glare
with blessed relief from urgency

somewhere an old wrecked car
a tired mass of rust and heat haze
crouched in sweat with angled crank
and grimy callused hands
the faceless traveller turns and turns

when chill night kisses dawn she sees
mountains far away
escape – escape from these barren wastes
where another way meets another way
and leads back to where she foundered

the traveller cranks – it coughs and dies
worn hands slip slick and bruised
redound to blue-white heat
where she will try
tomorrow and tomorrow

*

Photographer: Val Macedo
Prose Author: Paul Loebig

Beneath the warming light of day
We’ve been huddled close
In a loving gaze
Wind combs through hair
Caresses flesh
In a gentle way

The night before, has long since passed
A new time to prove my love will last
Sandles placed aside to feel
Life, love and sand in toes and on heels

The sky shines down as a symbol of hope
The world seems safe
Our hearts can elope

Tiny waves lap lightly against the shore
After each one, knowing there will be more
Off in the distance, playful laughter
Dances
Catches in the wind, and is carried long after
Prances
In the midst of rekindling emotional embers
A club with only two members

The sun is inviting
The chairs await us when we’re weary
Feeling this heart shall never give way
Never let go until the final day
The future is cheery
All seen so clearly
When we rest together
We will know the feeling of forever

Photographer: Vibecke Dahle
Prose Author: Dean 84

Furrowed wrinkled stained hands
leathery and worn out
they have done their work

Two loving hands
give each other security
it takes alot less there

Grabing my hand in yours
straggle with you through
forests and meadows

They accompained me through
life and world
helping me to go across water

everywhere …

to see a new way…

always

Touched by toil and impetuosity
my soul falls down in shallow
but your hand comforts me-holds me tide

I wish me a hand as yours
that give me the power to
see your story in the wrinkles

A hand for peace,
a hand with a light
A hand that is always there -

and is not afraid

Photographer: Zed Boucher-Myers
Prose Author: girl_pr

Echo of columns
Concrete calls bark.
Leading the way.

My path before you.
Narrow is your alley.

Yet aren’t you streching on
towards my escape?

I walk on the edge of the world.
Your hedges. My edge.
Your safety lines
are keeping me free
of others.
Of me.
I feel happy in your captivity.

Photographer: Diana Lee
Prose Author: la-speedwing

Since you’ve been gone, the double bed is too big.
Since you’ve been gone, I’ve been wearing your pajamas, which are also too big.

Since you’ve been gone, I keep the electric blanket on all night. I dream I’m a pizza, trapped in the oven of that bad Italian restaurant we went to on Quay Street. The tables were crammed so close together that when we sat down, the stranger next to us said, “Glad ye could make it.”

Since you’ve been gone, I’ve been listening to that song, “Since You’ve Been Gone”.
Since you’ve been gone, since you’ve been gone, I’m out of my head, can’t take it.
Since you’ve been gone, when I hear the song, “Since You’ve Been Gone”, I don’t feel like rocking out and playing air guitar like I did when I heard “Since You’ve Been Gone” before you left.

Since you’ve been gone, I’ve committed mass herbicide. You’ve turned me into a herbicidal maniac. You should have taken the plants with you.

Since you’ve been gone, I sing along like a strangled cat as Sinéad O’ Connor sings, “Since you’ve been gone, I can do whatever I want. I can see whomever I choose.”
Since you’ve been gone, I want to do nothing, and I choose to see no one.

Since you’ve been gone, I’ve stopped shaving my legs and my eyebrows meet in the middle.
Since you’ve been gone, I’ve renounced plates. I stand in the kitchen and eat straight from the saucepan and there’s nobody there to give a damn.

Since you’ve been gone, I keep waiting. I keep waiting and the bed’s not getting any smaller. I keep waiting, since you’ve been gone.

Photographer: Ewa Samples
Prose Author: maire-t-robinson

durga’s metallic arms
in slow rotation
cyclic offerings, the gift
of ritual
careful
carnival of life
amending
the axis
all our allegories, myths
all our rambling
fictions
fabled
truth awkward and oblique
laid against the constant sky

Photographer: Diana Lee
Prose Author: thinkingcat

sometimes the elements show themselves in all their magnificent harmony
sometimes i see the gust of wind because it wants to teach me its form of play
sometimes the sun warms my heart before it touches my skin…reminding me where i came from
sometimes the water falls just as i need to weep
sometimes the soil turns it’s self over and reveals the mystery secreted in darkness
sometimes the moon is spoken of in ways that make me know who i am
sometimes the buddha, without moving, catches a magnolia blossom

Photographer: Zed Boucher-Myers
Prose Author: Brenda Knosher