Our “Intersections” short story contest has concluded and it was an extremely competitive one. The winner is “Chum” by Christopher X. Ryan, which tells the story of a young insomniac …
We are rag dolls made out of many ages and skins, changelings who have slept in wood nests or hissed in the uncouth guise of waddling amphibians. We have played …
Dizzy and cold, the stars are wearing veils of grief and weeping as if over me. Under such a sky the only sense I have of myself is senselessness—the indiscriminate …
Night was falling. Birds were singing. Birds were, it occurred to me to say, enacting a frantic celebration of day’s end. They were manifesting as the earth’s bright-colored nerve endings, …
The world rests in the night. Trees, mountains, fields, and faces are released from the prison of shape and the burden of exposure. Each thing creeps back into its own …
In the dark I rest, unready for the light which dawns day after day, eager to be shared. Black silk, shelter me. I need more of the night before I …
From an unfathomable primordial source, interior being [innern], the soul’s difficult-to-comprehend forms climb into the light of consciousness where they dissolve again like all genuine creations of the night. …
But that long day ends at last; yields to the night-time of the flood. And, just as the waters of the ocean come flooding, darkening over the pools, so over George …
– Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night. —Carl Sandburg, The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg – Image …
Our fantastic civilization has fallen out of touch with many aspects of nature, and with none more completely than with night. Primitive folk, gathered at a cave mouth round …
