Before the pandemic set in, we began to see what the writers had to share. We found moon-mad children and brackish nights. We found women holding off violence with clothing irons as tornadoes dropped from the sky. We found a poet in a green suit and heard the horse-shift of carousels gone dark. We found parents lost and alone. We found patriarchal watchdogs with their murderous offspring, yet we also found elementos that bonded so facilito.

We found these images, heard these stories, and felt these sounds unaware they were whispering of a difficult new era.

Welcome to the 24th issue of Waccamaw.