In this 25^th issue of Waccamaw, our contributors dreamt. They dreamt of bones “rewritten and rescripted and then reburied with dirt and snow and sweat,” of electrical storms in a grandfather’s heart, of our house illuminated with gaslight, and of nestlings born too soon under winter’s sky. They dreamt Johnny Cash singing, “I don’t like it but I guess things happen that way,” as stars burn out and fall. But they found more than bitter moments and afternoons near the end. They remembered a shared cigarette after a devastating tornado, acknowledged hate and love for a father, half dream and half ghost.

Pandemic-deep in Zoom meetings, we dreamed up an issue for a devastating year that demanded new images and new voices.