Featured Selections | The Sun Magazine #2

Featured Selections

From the Archives


We Were All Just Kids, Really

It was never wholly about music; it was also about being part of a community of like-minded misfits and broken dolls. I felt a responsibility to capture these bands and that world specifically because it seemed like nobody else was.

Photographs And Text By Michael Galinsky March 2022
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Wild Heart

Walking alone through a wild land, our perceptions soon alter. We begin to experience the earth anew, know the very place we stand as the source and locus of our own rediscovered wild heart.

By Jim Nollman September 1993
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

In The Presence Of Rock And Sky

We were standing, about ten of us, at the top of the Fanaråkbreen Glacier, bound together by a thick rope and a common desire not to disappear under thin ice. It was the height of summer in Norway, and down below, the annual glacial melt was well underway.

By Erik Reece April 2010


Tuvalu is in danger of disappearing due to sea-level rise. The ocean around it is rising about one inch every five years, twice the global average. It’s estimated that an eight- to sixteen-inch increase will be enough to make the country uninhabitable.

Photographs by Forest Woodward November 2020

Mer de Glace

Under ice / we breathe in shrunken sentences, / locked in / by the firn dome overhead / moving through our white sleep / like a clock’s hour hand.

By Jim Lark February 1976
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories


I am on a tiny island in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland with a full-grown ram between my legs — not the way I usually spend a summer Saturday. This began as a simple errand, to fetch a fleece for dyeing from John Finlay, a crofter and neighbor of my hosts.

By Rochelle Smith July 2009
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories


The sound of air expanding in my chest cavity and then being forced past the catgut of my vocal cords — that’s the sound my mother heard. It was a frightening, ugly sound, but the grief was pure and clean. Against the thickness of it, the viscosity, my mother would segue from soothing words into stories.

By Maureen Stanton May 2002


On a hot summer day when my brother was eight months old, my father carried him to the top step of the back porch, lifted him over his head, and tossed him into the weeds.

By K. A. Kern February 1996

In Praise Of Four-Letter Words

We yell shit / when the egg carton slips / and the ivory globes / splatter on blue tile. / And when someone leaves you / bruised as a dropped pear, you spit / that fucker, fucking bastard, motherfucker.

By Ellen Bass December 2004