Featured Selections | The Sun Magazine #2

Featured Selections

From the Archives

Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Losing The Trail

Her face registers that frightful blankness I’ve come to know too well during her slow descent into dementia. For her, is it winter? Is it yesterday? Is it now? “I was following these flowers,” she says. “Somebody’s planted them all along this road. See?”

By Michael McColly August 2013
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Joyous Blues God For A Day

It’s 1994, and I’ve been sentenced on drug charges to seven months in a minimum-security prison in California’s Mojave Desert. And yet I feel godlike: I have a single cell, one of the highest-paying jobs in the joint, and a poetry group called the Mad Poets. Also I’m writing a novel, making up my own little world, and this too makes me feel like a god.

By Saint James Harris Wood May 2013
The Dog-Eared Page

The Meadow Across The Creek

The difficulty is that with the rise of the modern sciences we began to think of the universe as a collection of objects rather than a communion of subjects.

By Thomas Berry September 2009
The Sun Interview

Before We Leap

Carolyn Raffensperger On The Revolutionary Idea Of Putting Safety First

The precautionary principle is a simple yet revolutionary idea that turns our culture’s practice of science on its head. It says that, when you have scientific uncertainty and the likelihood of harm, you take preventive or precautionary action. On the most basic level, there’s nothing more to it.

By Derrick Jensen November 2002
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Essay In Which My Uncle Eddy And I Attend His Funeral

I want to ask Uncle Eddy how it could possibly be that he is sitting in my car as we drive through Katonah, New York, on the way to Danbury, but sometimes in life you just roll with what’s happening and try to make sense of it after it happens.

By Brian Doyle October 2013
Fiction

Griswald

All you know is how sunny it was — so bright you could hardly see — and how the old man kept trying to tip you back into the stream, the water electric and cold, old Mr. Griswald saying not to worry, his hands on your shoulders, him standing in the water behind you, you this little kid, nine or ten years old, that voice of his strange and far above, saying not to worry, saying just lie back, saying he has you, he has you.

By William Lychack January 2009
Fiction

Whatever Day It Is

My tester asks me to take a seat in the waiting room while she reviews my score. She wants to see if I have missed anything. I want to tell her I missed my fifties, skipped that whole section of my life, lived anesthetized for a decade, ten years on autopilot — years you think will continue to replicate themselves, dull and identical, until you die. Then the serious aging starts, and you know your fifties as gold poorly spent.

By Linda McCullough Moore October 2016
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Fourteen Steps

I have heard it said that most people die as they have lived. Judging by my sample group of one (me), I can also say that people plan their suicides as they have lived. Even though I was too depressed to read a book or watch a movie, I was going to have the most well-researched, most thoughtful suicide of all time.

By Jennifer Rabin February 2017
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

The Things You Forget

You cannot remember winter. You cannot remember the way the weeks of gray stitched themselves together into a patchwork of cold, the sky the color of a galvanized bucket, and the mud frozen at the lip of the pond.

By Christina Rosalie Sbarro August 2008