I am leery of ancestor worship, but the more I research the history of my great-great grandfather, Asa Fowler, the more I find admirable about him. He was born the youngest of a dozen children on a farm in Pembroke, N.H. in the year 1811. A sickly boy, he was only able to do light farm work, and it was determined early on that he should become a teacher. So, he was sent to the local academy in Pembroke, where he turned out to be an excellent student. After leaving the academy, Asa went to … Continue reading Asa Fowler by Miles Fowler→
he texts me a photograph of the bear scat he found under the chokecherry bush which is bent to the ground stripped on one side of all its red berries but a black bear in our civilized back yard does it mean drought in the foothills does it mean boredom and the need for adventure does it mean the smell of those little red berries can travel for miles or does it mean apocalypse who can say perhaps it means we aren’t alone here perhaps it means we need to clear the vines from the … Continue reading My Husband Texting by Maureen Clark→
Quincy Gray McMichael has earned an Honorable Mention in Streetlight’s 2024 Essay/Memoir Contest As I stretch my shoulders, arms aloft, the Monongahela Forest yawns through a narrow split in the trees. Across the road from where I sit, the tranquil understory draws my eye past the weathered porch railing, my ever-growing grass, baby blueberries, high-tensile farm fence, and the last lilac bush. I spot a fiery flash among the scrub and shadows, a thin flag of tabby-tail above the green. Shredder, the orange cat, shoots from the underbrush and across the gravel—a one-lane road … Continue reading Cicadian Rhythm by Quincy Gray McMichael→
When the ceramic tile shattered, I was ashamed I hadn’t cared better for this piece of art created by a friend, one part of a quadriptych. All I saw was the void beneath two nail holes in my bathroom wall, beauty of the other three tiles lessened by more than a mere fourth. When I swept the floor and gathered shards on a plastic plate, I was reminded that all vanity is temporary. We consist of borrowed parts, atoms born in distant stars that comprised a billion things before becoming us. Who was I to … Continue reading Becoming by Bill Glose→
Watercolors came naturally to artist James Ellis. “The summer I finished elementary school I discovered my mom was taking a watercolor painting class,” he remembers. “I watched her arrange her palette and paints, ready her favorite brushes, set up a tiny watercolor board on a tiny easel, and then paint that morning’s model, a small white vase decorated with a blue printed illustration of a Chinese farmer. The vase held a few black-eyed Susans. My mom worked quickly, and in less than an hour she produced an exquisite rendering. My mom had suddenly transformed … Continue reading Watercolors and Drawings by James Ellis→
Like a lot of people, I’ve dealt with health issues my whole life. I have cystic fibrosis, which comes with a cornucopia of symptoms, like deteriorating ability to breathe, IV antibiotics, collapsed lungs, port-a-caths and, oh right, a double lung transplant. I’ve done my best to roll with the punches, especially after being given a second chance at life, but then, a few months ago at forty-two, I woke up completely unable to control my hand. I’m not sure if the fact that my limp hand was completely useless was just so weird, or because … Continue reading Comfort in the Unknown by Emily Littlewood→
The appointment was made for five-thirty so my wife Polly and I could both be there. She worked in an office in town and I was working from home then. But my work had been slow so I really wasn’t doing much of anything at work, and when I was awoken by a knock at the front door I sat up on the couch and looked at the clock and saw that it was a quarter to five. When I opened the door an overweight man in his sixties, wearing a white dress shirt … Continue reading Hard Water by S. E. Wilson→
I ready myself to read poetry for a group of graduate students. They’ve had the ingenuity to find an old, abandoned chapel near campus and turn it into a poetry space. Eavesdropping from a pew, I find myself listening once again to choruses of before; before the first published book, before marriages and mortgages and self-support. There are lots of munchies—I’ve forgotten how hungry students are, how irregular the meals. There are students reading poems from phones rather than spiral notebooks, whose edges might as well be the coiling of years between us. There is … Continue reading A Place to Hold Us by Sharon Perkins Ackerman→
My mom died sometime last year. And it’s funny, I couldn’t tell you exactly when it happened. Well, it’s not so much funny as it is strange. Because I wasn’t expecting her to die at all. And what you should also understand is that she’s not actually dead. Not physically at least. She’s still kicking up dust. Texting. Breathing. But she’s somehow also gone; or at least for me she is. She’s dead in a way I’ve found excruciatingly hard to pinpoint and to process. It happened some time after my Dad died. He did … Continue reading Death Reprise by Lauren Dunn→
She said she knew that it was Father’s Day in the U.S. and she began to tell me a story from the back seat as we bounced down rough dirt roads on the way to the church. I twisted in the passenger seat to watch her face even though the streets of Bujumbura were a captivating sight. Three-wheeled tuk-tuks competed with overladen bicycles and military trucks for space between deep ditches. A man walked along the side of the road with a stack of foam mattresses on his head, seven high. Another navigated his bike … Continue reading Father’s Day in Bujumbura by Alex Joyner→
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