Dear Readers,
This is our tenth year and twentieth issue here at Waccamaw, and in this new decade we’ve been thinking about firsts. We have had a lot of firsts here in recent years. The first student-run issue. The first print edition (available here). The first time we were called upon to organize with our community to help a friend. In our larger context there have been firsts too. The first time we witnessed a streak of light across the country in the shape of the voices of teens.
In these pages you will find echoes of this light and the black hole that slurps at it. You’ll find the oddness of our world, windshield caught. Mineral silhouettes of mothers melting scars in a thousand formless disasters. You will talk to names. The outer bands will hand you keys. Your mouth may disappear into your father’s, your brother’s, and reemerge where the flashing lights on the road board speak like a heart. You may have a conversation there. You are probably not made of bronze. Chances are you have so many insides your skin gardens into taste and ribbons around your wrist, your jaw unhinged half the time. You are probably, as we speak, reaching to phone your grandchildren, being the grandchildren, reaching over the throbbing fence to find something as strong as you are. May you get there.
May you write in rhymes of draperies and bring gold if you got it. May you pack throats with new worlds. And should water (or its absence) ever betray you, we will be here to face the floated up worlds. Ready with the machete.
Or maybe some baked goods.
Yours,
The Waccamites