creative writing on environmental justice
Akari saw the restricted tree first.
Wrestling the Agency’s sleek sedan around the treacherous holes in Zimmerman’s pitted rural driveway held my full attention. We’d passed the mailbox fifteen minutes back, leaving me certain we’d missed a turnoff to the old man’s place—then Akari slapped the dash. “Frank! Pull over!”
Akari snapped off her seatbelt . . .
The world ended in ice
as scientists predicted
lab coat Noahs
ignored
as they counted the animals
two by two
into their ark
and lifted off
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Aaron: It’s the Reckoning Press Podcast. I’m Aaron Kling, audio editor for Reckoning, here to introduce the reader and author for today’s story. Andrew Kozma brings us “Exit Here” from Reckoning 3. This one’s a story of a small group of desperately underfunded researchers battling . . .
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Welcome back to the Reckoning Press podcast! Reckoning is a nonprofit, annual journal of creative writing on environmental justice. I’m Michael J. DeLuca, publisher.
Reckoning 4 comes out the first of the year, which is in less than two weeks!
In the meantime, we have for you a reading by Dayna K. Smith of Bernadette Marie Oliver’s “Vivian, Radiant” from Reckoning 3, which . . .
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Welcome back to the Reckoning Press podcast! Reckoning is a nonprofit, annual journal of creative writing on environmental justice. I’m Michael J. DeLuca, publisher. Tomorrow, September 1st, we raise our rates for prose to 8 cents a word! Thank you profusely if you’re among those who helped us accomplish that–and if you’re interested, there’s still time; . . .
test prints of eyes for bodypolitic, anarchy bike borrowed from Internet, and the Symbol which I went onto start using on activist outfits ,,,, crossover period
I made this block kinda by mistake, then it kinda became a #prototype, then I was like we need to print thousands so I started the #silkscreen thing : : : Making a block kinda crystallizes things . . .
August 9, 2018
I have paper! I have a pencil! I’m in jail! The world is sharply divided. There is a here and a not here, a yes and a no. Mostly the women in green, like me, are broken and hurt, of course. The women in uniforms are thoughtful and gentle, at least to me, at least for now. All is well. I sleep, eat, wonder, try to phone out, but can’t make things work, so I settle . . .
I hear the drum beating.
What is it saying in the heartbeat of the world
other than look at the earth?
And the earth is there,
and the earth is always there.
I was conceived in Cades Cove
in the Smoky Mountains. In a tent.
Aren’t we always in a tent?
The red tent, the biblical tent,
the tent from other books I was never taught
that are also holy. I was conceived
in . . .
Uncle Jessie crushed Vivian into the snow. The coldness seeped under the flaps of her hunting jacket—at her wrists where her gloves didn’t meet her sleeves, at her back as her shirt rode up over her belt. Blood trickled over her lips from the cut left by Jessie’s pinky ring. Her vision was murky under his clouded breath.
She flailed, wrenched an arm free from . . .
It was the year the lake turned to glass. It was as though the water wasn’t even there, the shore simply extending further and further into a barren landscape. The lakes had been cleaned in recent years, some meager effort to beautify the city, but that made it all the worse. Every discarded bottle, every useless tire rolled into the surf, they petulantly stared . . .