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The Roots

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Alaska by Colin Garrity

After my first paycheck, I bought a second hand tent and a sixteen-dollar bicycle. Plenty of Inuit and Eskimo and high school kids: wrist braces and missing teeth. The foreman had a mullet and a limp so got out of there as fast as I could.

Burning Independence

One of my first and fondest memories is of playing with fire. The multitude of memories have, with time, become distilled into one.


“Hey, watch it!” I shout, slamming on my brakes to allow for the one ton, dual wheeled, truck to cut me off, almost forcing me into the curb.

This is how lonely it gets

“Well, going to sleep I guess. When you’re lying in your bed and you’re too tired to read, or write—you’re just lying down. A lot of people put music on or listen to the radio. And I don’t mean to make too much of a generalization, or impose an opinion when I could just be a little tired myself, but why don’t you, not you, like a general you, the plebeian you, why don’t you just go to sleep?”

A sense of place

The air tastes richer than in August, the taste of the last tomatoes dripping from your tongue, only to be replaced by the rich crack of an apple. The tart wince of cider, and the smell of smoke rising from every chimney, excite your senses till you feel tired while your heart is full.

To know thyself

“The army is not a simple thing. It’s strange to me that I have a gun and I know how to use it.” A piece about friendship crossing barriers of place and value.

Every day we cry

Sarah Hyde recalls her experience traveling in Nicaragua.

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