Nonfiction

"Decrepit Dinos #3" by Jennifer Lothrigel, Photograph, Mud Season Review

NONFICTION: ISSUE #13

Whacking a Doe

By Alexander Barbolish
 
 

It took three shots to kill my first deer. The first bullet hit at the base of her lungs and exited out the left shoulder. With awkward, halting leaps, the doe bounded forward about twenty yards and then stopped. I rose from the weeds along the tree line and walked out into the field, focusing on the dark hole in the middle of her side.
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"#3 Pollen Tsunami" by Ramsay Wise, 24" x 36" Spray Paint and Acrylic on Canvas, Mud Season Review

NONFICTION: ISSUE #12

The Bees Are All Women

By Millie Tullis
 
 

My naked back is still open to the winter air, and I know Jaden can see its white glow even in the dark as we talk. I feel cold sitting up in the bed. I hold the heavy comforter to my neck and chest and bury my face in it when he speaks. “I think…it should wait…until marriage,” he says…
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Spring, Mixed Media by Iryna Lialko , Mud Season Review

NONFICTION: ISSUE #11

The Grey House Didn’t Speak

by Rain Wright
 
 

No people remain to lift their hands in farewell. Home does not speak. It does not call out our names as we move up the steps onto the plane. It does not call out as if to say We have a long history, do not go
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"Taxco Cathedral" by Joshua Distler, Photo-etching from Sketch, 8" x 11", Mud Season Review

NONFICTION: ISSUE #10

Bookbinding for Amateurs in Autumn

by Tara Deal
 
 

The creaking space is filled with what looks like torture equipment: guillotines, paper cutters, iron presses, hammers, and chisels. This is not a place for hobbyists, and I am grateful. Because I want to learn how to do something difficult….
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"Oil and Water," Oil on Canvas, 48” x 68”, by Ronna Lebo, Mud Season Review

NONFICTION ISSUE #9

with light steam

by Alex Simand
 
 

A few years ago I began frequenting a Russian bathhouse in San Francisco, a city far from my childhood home of Toronto, far from my pot-bellied uncles and drunken cousins, and Russian curse words. The bathhouse is called Archimedes Banya, and it does not market itself as a Russian bathhouse…
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Borrow Bit, wood engraving by Josh Distler

NONFICTION: ISSUE #8

Like Happy Birthday But Not Really

by Edmund Sandoval
 
 

This year your birthday falls in the weeks between the day when she calls you at work to tell you between sobs that they found something in her brain and the day she meets with the neurosurgeon for the final diagnosis. They is a radiologist whose name we never learn but who, after looking at the MRI scan of her brain, says there’s a lesion right in the middle of it. In the Turkish Chair…
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NONFICTION: ISSUE #7

Throwing Stones at Apple Trees

by John Messick
 

Along the limestone southern coast of Turkey in the port city of Mersin, tucked amid Roman ruins, fields of iambic columns, and newly built high-rises, I spent three days in a back-alley whorehouse. The sign in front of the building was small, barely visible. “Otel,” it read. Old men sat sipping tea in the lobby…Read more

Nonfiction: Issue #6

Shelter

by Sarah Marty-Schlipf
 

On that warm June afternoon when I first laid eyes on Bently, I’d been on my way to teach a writing class at the county jail. I knew our local no-kill shelter taught inmates at the nearby federal prison to train dogs. Because I was early for work, I stopped in to see the place I’d heard so much about…Read more

"Organs," photo of installation, Dublin Cat's Head

Nonfiction: Issue #5

The Origins of Minor Injuries

by Dinh Prince
 
 

Dozens of nights play out in this way: Benjamin twisting out of our arms again and again, arching his back, rolling his eyes, his muscles hardening as he struggles away from our grasp. A baby can be enormously strong, its power centered in the stomach under misleading layers of fat…Read more

Regardless of What You Face by Dr. Ernest Williamson III

Nonfiction: Issue #4

An Unexpected Light

by Shuly Cawood
 
 

Sometimes I wish we could start over—not so we could change it, but to do it all again. I would rewind the clock eight years to that Saturday night contra dance, after I had escaped the crowds to cry in the back hallway of the Carrboro Century Center. Tsafi hardly knew me, but she followed me anyway…Read more