Issue 4: Summer
Cover art: “Dad’s Oar” by Helen Gwyn Jones
Editor’s Letter
It's summer. A time of planning vacations, parties, gatherings, and subsequently throwing all that hard planning out the window. Well, at least in part. It always seems to happen this way, doesn't it? We plan something, and we want it to be perfect. However, the most interesting thing is the unexpected—what actually happens. The unplanned moments that keep us moving are often what we remember in looking back. When I was 12, we went camping in June on my birthday. Normally, we'd only go camping when you could see your breath and wear two pairs of socks to bed, sometime in October. That summer though, for whatever reason, we planned a family vacation to go camping on Black Rock Mountain. One night, close to sunset, we went to an overlook. I think it was beautiful, as sunsets in the mountains are, but I only remember it vaguely in light of what came next. When we came back to our campsite, our Jeep was shaking. That's weird. We walked closer, and there it was. A black bear stood on the rear bumper, bouncing up and down, like something out of a Scooby Doo cartoon. We watched enraptured as it tried to eat my Dad's Nalgene bottle, cracked the French press, poked its nose into the tent. A park ranger eventually ran it off with a loud whistle, and we headed home early.
Obviously, this was unplanned. The trip was NOT supposed to end with a black bear encounter. It was scary for a twelve-year-old and frustrating for my parents who lost their nice coffee maker. But, we laughed about it afterward, and whenever someone talks about camping, we don't speak much of Octobers—it's only the summer on "black bear" mountain.
This issue is filled with themes of resilience, finding joy in unexpected places, and embracing the present moment. Many of the pieces that follow detail weather, summer storms, tempests of physical and metaphorical kinds. The work in this issue isn't afraid to tell a good story, reflecting on the difficult moments as well as the joyous ones. Each one weaves together a narrative of staying present, and walking forward through whatever comes your way, because the unexpected will always happen. But, I just bet you'll get a good story out of it.
I hope you enjoy this newest issue of the journal. Welcome to Issue 4.
Sincerely,
Hannah Cole Orsag
Editor-in-Chief
Obviously, this was unplanned. The trip was NOT supposed to end with a black bear encounter. It was scary for a twelve-year-old and frustrating for my parents who lost their nice coffee maker. But, we laughed about it afterward, and whenever someone talks about camping, we don't speak much of Octobers—it's only the summer on "black bear" mountain.
This issue is filled with themes of resilience, finding joy in unexpected places, and embracing the present moment. Many of the pieces that follow detail weather, summer storms, tempests of physical and metaphorical kinds. The work in this issue isn't afraid to tell a good story, reflecting on the difficult moments as well as the joyous ones. Each one weaves together a narrative of staying present, and walking forward through whatever comes your way, because the unexpected will always happen. But, I just bet you'll get a good story out of it.
I hope you enjoy this newest issue of the journal. Welcome to Issue 4.
Sincerely,
Hannah Cole Orsag
Editor-in-Chief
Not sure where to start?
Here are our favorite lines and passages from the pieces in this issue: Snippets of Issue 4
Here are our favorite lines and passages from the pieces in this issue: Snippets of Issue 4
Narratives Threads: As Above, so Below
Dad’s Oar by Helen Gwyn Jones // Visual Art
Above Ground by Tinamarie Cox // Visual Art
Configuration by Shikha S. Lamba // Visual Art
Above Ground by Tinamarie Cox // Visual Art
Configuration by Shikha S. Lamba // Visual Art
Once Upon a Time...
The Magic's in the Telling
My Family through the Rearview Mirror
Displaced Person by Stephen Jordan // CNF
Language isn't what matters by Rebecca Gethin // Poetry
between a drowning man by Martyn Crucefix // Poetry
Legacy by David B. Prather // Poetry
Multiverse Ars Poetica by Merie Kirby // Poetry
Reverse Migration by Anne Cowie // Poetry
Language isn't what matters by Rebecca Gethin // Poetry
between a drowning man by Martyn Crucefix // Poetry
Legacy by David B. Prather // Poetry
Multiverse Ars Poetica by Merie Kirby // Poetry
Reverse Migration by Anne Cowie // Poetry
Thunderstruck
*CW: some pieces in this section include mentions of death and/or depictions of violence.
Elderberry Wine and Jack Daniels* by Edie Williams // CNF
To a Father, Never Known by Louis Faber // Poetry
An Old Friend* by Yitzchak Friedman // Fiction
Daphne by Cynthia Bernard // Poetry
Maybe Today by Hilary Ayshford // Fiction
To a Father, Never Known by Louis Faber // Poetry
An Old Friend* by Yitzchak Friedman // Fiction
Daphne by Cynthia Bernard // Poetry
Maybe Today by Hilary Ayshford // Fiction
A Tale of Who We Were Then
Summer Storm on East 38th Street by Joan Hagy // Poetry
The Archaeology of Dreams by Kathryn Lasseter // Poetry
Laces by Sandra Coffey // Fiction
Green in Amber by E. H. Warrington // CNF
The Mailbox by Chaya Friedman // Fiction
A Big Quarry in a Small Place Named Genoa by Jeremy Schnee // CNF
The Archaeology of Dreams by Kathryn Lasseter // Poetry
Laces by Sandra Coffey // Fiction
Green in Amber by E. H. Warrington // CNF
The Mailbox by Chaya Friedman // Fiction
A Big Quarry in a Small Place Named Genoa by Jeremy Schnee // CNF
Here We Find Grace
Stormy Weather by Jacqueline Goyette // CNF
Joy in Unexpected Fields by Elizabeth Bird // CNF
Murfreesboro by Hart Christopher Vetter // CNF
Storm Shelter by Bethany Cutkomp // Fiction
Grief Manifests as Dancing in the Animal Crossing Butterfly Exhibit by Ashley McCurry // Fiction
His Butterfly by Thomas Elson // Poetry
Joy in Unexpected Fields by Elizabeth Bird // CNF
Murfreesboro by Hart Christopher Vetter // CNF
Storm Shelter by Bethany Cutkomp // Fiction
Grief Manifests as Dancing in the Animal Crossing Butterfly Exhibit by Ashley McCurry // Fiction
His Butterfly by Thomas Elson // Poetry
Open Spaces
This issue is dedicated to my found family. They were the first to tell me to embrace this journey, to leap and challenge myself to create Heimat Review. They gave input on the name, on ideas for the website; they were, and are, my support. When I think of marking the year in seasons, my heart turns toward them. In the midst of bleak winters (both metaphorical and literal), they have always been there for me. Fall is cider bars and Halloween parties. Spring is when we began our story, and Summer is when we said “let’s do this again.” No story, no friendship is ever done or stagnant. It’s growing, building on the sum of its part into something new and stronger.
They taught me the value of storytelling in a group setting while learning to trust each other over four years of playing D&D together. We brought a fictional story to life as we walked through our own journeys. There is light and life in telling a story with friends, for being there for each other, to choose each other as family. They remind me to be true to myself, to not be so much in my head, to pursue the stories that others need to hear, and they make me a better person because of it.
This issue is dedicated to husband and my two best friends. To Matthew, to Jared, and to Forest. I owe you so much, and I thank you for all that is past and everything yet to come.
They taught me the value of storytelling in a group setting while learning to trust each other over four years of playing D&D together. We brought a fictional story to life as we walked through our own journeys. There is light and life in telling a story with friends, for being there for each other, to choose each other as family. They remind me to be true to myself, to not be so much in my head, to pursue the stories that others need to hear, and they make me a better person because of it.
This issue is dedicated to husband and my two best friends. To Matthew, to Jared, and to Forest. I owe you so much, and I thank you for all that is past and everything yet to come.