I caught a cab downtown to the service to see what had become of my friend, the fierce fighter whom I dearly knew. I never believed she would be gone for long: by nightfall she would splinter the box, disrupt the soil, swallow the stone. It is the only way she has ever known. I’ve since seen her in the market, glimpse her on the street. She’s always an evasive blur, our eyes never meet. I’ve heard her echo on dark winter nights, smelled her on a spring breeze. I’ve witnessed her in autumn, the falling of the leaves. I’ve felt her on a summer day, the presence of her heat. I’ve tasted her in a glass of water, when lip and liquid meet. I’ve touched the softness of her cheek, over and over in my mind. I’ve been rocked by her thunder, time after time. To appreciate the spark of her lightning, one must understand the electricity of the sublime.
James Evans is a writer of short fiction and poetry from central Kentucky. James enjoys spending time with his fiancée Jen & their three daughters (four daughters if including the cat—we do), cooking, and collecting books. He is a graduate of Kentucky State University and Bluegrass Community & Technical College.
Editor-in-Chief Laura Lee Washburn is the Director of Creative Writing at Pittsburg State University in Kansas, and the author of This Good Warm Place: 10th Anniversary Expanded Edition (March Street) and Watching the Contortionists (Palanquin Chapbook Prize). Her poetry has appeared in such journals as TheNewVerse.News, Carolina Quarterly, Ninth Letter, The Sun, and Valparaiso Review. Harbor Review’s microchap prize is named in her honor.