Nonfiction

Crawling Uphill
by Travis Burke

I return to the same place in dreams. It’s the withering years, dust on dust, sand screaming out from underneath Osprey. Dawn just out, light coming in from Kandahar, glancing streamers off the Helmand. Metal, carved and curved, twisted into itself. In dreams, Massoud still clutches a halved steering wheel, face streaming blood that makes no mark in the gravel. And here, poppy shoots writhing up through mud-baked walls.

75 Years Later, What I Still Don’t Know
by Kay Henry

December 7, 2016.

At 8:00 in the morning, I’m enjoying an ordinary breakfast outside on the front porch: a bowl of muesli, hot coffee. I slip the dog a biscuit and watch the mist roll through the olive grove, preparing the way for the day’s sunshine. Except for a distant neighbor’s tractor, all is quiet.