"Lost" by Catherine Howley, acrylic paint and pastels



By Meredith Boe

The planes over this city, they fly low. Above my bed, night or day, where I’ve spent my hours lately. The rush of vibrations gets louder, then softer, louder, then softer, like waves. When they’re really low, it sounds as if the sky is ripping in half. I go to work, read, drink too much, eat, make love. And repeat. Time feels wave-like, or more a whirlpool tub I can’t climb out of….
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Hieronymus Bosch (circa 1450–1516) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons


Honeymoon Reservations

By Nancy McCabe

The first time I saw a slide of Hieronymous Bosch’s “Garden of Earthly Delights” projected on the screen in art history class, Marc and I had been married for nine months and I felt like I was viewing a metaphor for my own life….
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"Turbulence I" by Laura Teti, 48" x 48" Acrylic on Canvas, Mud Season Review


Bring Out Your Dead

By Rebecca Fremo

He repeats the lessons from yesterday: “Only aim at the target. Never touch the trigger til you’re ready to shoot the target. Never point it at people or up in the air. Animals could get hurt.” …
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"The Land of Rock Towers" by Elise Palmigiani, 19.70" x 39.50" Acrylic on Canvas, Mud Season Review



By Andrew Maynard

I’ve seen tumbleweed before, but never this massive. They look like clumps of wicker, like loosely bundled strands of barbwire, somersaulting viciously across the asphalt and shrinking into the shrub-covered desert. “Goddamn,” my father says, squinting out the passenger window of my truck. “They’re not even this big in Westerns….”
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"Enveloped, or How I Felt with You" by Julia Haw, 40" x 36" Oil on Canvas, 2007-2012, Mud Season Review


The Funambulists

By Jonathan Rovner

Conjure up two people—let’s say one man and one woman—and place them in a nondescript room. Don’t slap them down like stamps in an album; people are fragile, after all. Fill the room with tension. The problem, of course, is that tension doesn’t look like anything. You might have to use your imagination. Maybe floodwaters are filling the room with a sluggish inevitability…
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"Vegas Heights" by Cathryn Sugg, 9' x 7' Oil and Mixed Media Femmage, Mud Season Review Artist


A Song for the Beautifully Useful

By Barry Maxwell

I discovered the clock radio in an out-of-the-way niche of Granny’s living room, wedged on a bookshelf behind a ribboned bundle of last year’s Christmas cards and a stack of miniature New Testaments. It was an early ‘60s model, a minimalist white cube atop a round footing, designed to look space-age and modern, with no place in Granny’s poor-folk country décor….
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Siskiwit Lake with unnamed island. Photo by Thomas Jefferson Stevenson. Image courtesy of the Historic Green Shed Museum in Cornucopia, WI.


Cornucopia, Unincorporated

By Nancy Wyland

When I was younger, Dad often remarked about Cornucopia being “unincorporated,” as if this were a point of interest or amusement. I could tell it had something to do with the town’s size, but only after I looked up the word “unincorporated” did I realize the charming irony of a village proclaiming its independence within a town of 230 people…
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"Untitled" by Michael St.Germain, 4" x 6" Ink on Photo



By Lauren Spinabelli

I watched Charlie fall asleep by the fire at summer camp. It was July. He tucked a piece of cardboard under his head, curled up under his red raincoat and fell asleep in the dirt. I watched the way he twitched in the flicker of the embers, I watched the way he opened and closed his fist, watched the nightmare rip itself out of his body and tear his eyes wide open….
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"Storms Never Last," Tornadic Supercell by David Smith, 24" x 18" Oil on panel, 2014, Mud Season Review


Healing Waters

By Melissa Wiley

A tornado’s hurried intake of breath uprooted a pine tree in my parents’ garden, my mom calls to tell me earlier on a Sunday morning than I need to hear it. What would they have done if it hit the house while they were sleeping? she asks…
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"Hilltop Road View of Seattle" by Allen Forrest, 16"x20" Oil on Canvas Panel, Mud Season Review


Garbage Heap Wonderland

By Gretchen Comcowich

We pass the last neighborhood before the forest begins. We walk beyond the houses where mountain-hardened residents are tucked away. As we crunch through old snow, the barking dogs and sounds of ATVs fade….
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