Dispatches | Page 15

Rabbit’s Foot

February 19, 2016 Dispatches

My dad’s black mutt slunk up to the front porch, looking slowly back and forth and crouching down low to the ground. I knew that body language: she was unsure of how a gift she had for us would be received. Her mouth was full of something. “Spit it out, girl,” I commanded. She gently separated her jaws and rolled a small brown ball of fur off her tongue. It was a wild baby rabbit, so small that at first I thought it was a mouse. But then I saw its ears and pink nose, and, as any nine-year-old girl would, I jumped and let out a squeak. Then I composed myself by taking a deep breath and patted my dog on the head. “Good girl, Macy. I’ve got it from here.”

Up North

January 20, 2016 Dispatches

By CHRIS KELSEY

We booked three nights but stayed four. We traveled in-state to save money but spent just as much as we might have on flights to the West Coast. It was November. Going against all reason at our latitude, we headed north.

What We Found in Them Thar Hills

December 16, 2015 Dispatches

By MARIA TERRONE

Driving on the Peak to Peak Highway through Colorado’s Rockies with my husband, Bill, and his mountain-climbing friend, Bob, I glimpsed in the valley beyond a cluster of low buildings painted blue, pink, and green. It looked as if a 19th century frontier mining town had been transformed by a happy band of pot-smoking hippies who had journeyed cross-country from Woodstock. The incongruity was so pronounced, I wondered if the air at 8200 feet had thinned my brain cells, causing hallucinations.

Rowing to Dubai

December 3, 2015 Dispatches

By GEOFF KRONIK

Every morning I sat on the terrace and waited for him. Night would fade to gray dawn, the sun’s first rays struck the kilometer-high spire of Burj Khalifa,and then the sculler would appear. No other craft plied Dubai Creek at that hour, no working dhows or party cruises. River belonged to sculler and sculler to his boat, and I would sit with my coffee and envy him.

Getting Bombed

November 24, 2015 Dispatches

By PETER E. MURPHY

To get to St. Govan’s Head on the southwest coast of Wales I must drive through the Ministry of Defense firing range at Castlemartin where space-age tanks launch high explosive shells across the sky. They’ve been blowing things up here since 1939. There’s a website that will tell me when the road is closed for target practice, but I’d have to drive miles in another direction to the McDonald’s in Haverfordwest to hook up to the free wifi. Instead, I stop at an inn along the way where I order a lemonade, which is carbonated and tastes like Sprite. They tell me today’s bombing begins after sunset. Welsh Pubs are usually reliable sources of information.

Rigor Celsius and Intaglio

November 11, 2015 Dispatches

By SUSAN COMNINOS

RIGOR CELSIUS

in Central New York

I’m allotted winter, allowed

Nothing that wasn’t before. Still, I am

Leading a Blind Man to the Liquor Store

October 7, 2015 Dispatches

By J. J. ANSELMI

I heard him yelling as I ate breakfast.

“Help! Won’t anyone come out and help me?” I looked out the window and saw a tall man with feathered blonde hair and large sunglasses standing on the sidewalk across the street. He reached out, trying to find something, anything, to guide him.

Bannerman Island

September 23, 2015 Dispatches

By MARIA TERRONE

There is something in me that loves an island. I live on one (Queens, New York, on Long Island, across the East River from the isle of Manhattan). I’m attracted to all kinds—those buried by volcanic eruptions; adrift in a blue void endless as the cosmos; locus of nearly extinct languages; and even the fictitious Island of Lost Souls ruled by the mad scientist Dr. Moreau.

Sunday Night in Mauerpark

September 9, 2015 Dispatches

By NOOR QASIM

I wake up from my three-hour nap because of a text from my brother.

I’ll be there in five!

After reading some texts and checking Facebook, I summon the strength to pull myself off the mattress, leaving the sheets damp with sweat behind me, and approach the red-framed mirror on the bright yellow wall of our hostel room. The nap had been good and deep but my head feels swollen with the heat and the grogginess of an interrupted sleep cycle. My eye-makeup is slightly smudged, which makes sense considering I’d applied it five minutes before I passed out. It didn’t have time to dry.

August Reads: Pacific Coast Highway

August 29, 2015 Dispatches

By JANE CAMPBELL

I was not allowed to walk or ride my bike along the highway without an adult. “Blonde hair and blue eyes,” my grandma would tell me. “Just the kind they’d want to steal.” As though at any moment, I could be taken and sold for profit like a chunk of copper wire.

“They’re not gonna steal me, Grandma,” I would tell her. “I’m too mouthy.”

All posts tagged: Dispatches

Rabbit’s Foot

Up North

What We Found in Them Thar Hills

Rowing to Dubai

Getting Bombed

Rigor Celsius and Intaglio

Leading a Blind Man to the Liquor Store

Bannerman Island

Sunday Night in Mauerpark

August Reads: Pacific Coast Highway

Discover the extraordinary in The Common.