Welcome to the 22nd Issue of Waccamaw,
This year, the water snaked its way in diamond coats to new places—reached in and pulled us out of where we thought we belonged. Now, we root ourselves in blooms of old blood, return birthmarks and all to the wild Atlantic. We recraft ourselves from jaw bones, not rib bones. We have learned, again, softness in our hardness and hardness in our softness. We now know what art can do when all we feel like is rocks ground down.
We offer to you our hope that this issue sleeps child-like within your skull, that it explodes neon with galaxies, pixels, minnows, and magic.
We are thankful for the dark and formless, the light and overgrown, and even our own miscalculations.
May we swim sloppy through this rainy season with rivered throats and blue, regrown veins. May we fall, fly up, and roar again. May we always glow with knowledge.
Love,
The Waccamites
In this 28th edition of Waccamaw, the Nigerian poet Fasasi Abdulrosheed Oladipupo unpacks the meaning…
[wc_row] [wc_column size="one-half" position="first"] Editorial Team Nonfiction Editor: Amy Singleton Poetry Editor: Brittany Davis Poetry…
The S.C. Creative Sociology Writing Competition invited undergraduate and graduate students from any discipline in…
Museum: a depository of grief displayed aesthetically; I carry the mishaps of things I want…
we say the knife is dead, or the mouth of the knife is dead because…
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