Featured Works: Week of March 26 (Renewal)
A lot has happened since an issue of Wild Violet last came out, but we are back! In the spirit of renewal, this week’s contributors offer fresh eyes on ordinary things. “All these peach blossoms” by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen evokes the rebirth of spring. “Only You Could Catch Me” by David Sapp recalls the memory of a childhood rescue. “Crows and dragonflies” by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen examines the inspiration of nature. If you are a contributor who prefers to send submissions via the postal service, use our new address: Wild Violet P.O. Box 887 Havertown, Pa....
Read MoreOnly You Could Catch Me
Only you could catch me. Auntie, this is your memory, But I’ll gladly abduct it, or Let’s say, better yet, whoever Lives longer absconds with it and Is required to tend the recollection: You, just fourteen at the bottom Of steep, basement stairs And me, just four at the top, I seized the chance of flight, Flung my little body at you, And you had no choice but to catch me. It was a good thing you were looking, But I knew only faith, not doubt. Only you could catch me. Still a child trapped like me, We recognized our comradery. Mom shrieked and swore; We escaped; we were free. Only you...
Read Moreall these peach blossoms
all these peach blossoms their wild, earthy green fragrance enough for us...
Read MoreEdward Furlong Returns to the Convention Circuit
It’s 2 p.m. on the second day of FanX 2021, and the line of fans excitedly awaiting their brief one-on-one moment with Edward Furlong is at a standstill — again. “Does your son’s name have a special meaning?” Eddie leans forward and asks while he autographs a Pet Sematary 2 poster, personalizing it with a dedication. The young dad, appropriately dressed as superhero, beams as he’s handed back one of his most prized movie memorabilia — now signed by his son’s favorite actor. “Dude, that’s really cool…” Eddie chats away. He patiently devotes just as much time learning...
Read MoreThe Flying Geese
for Gertrude Williams According to folklore, “wild geese flying south always fly in the shape of the initial letter of the island to which they are going.” I thought these stitches would last forever, like her full-throated laugh that still echoes deep through my days, the heart’s proof of what is not forgotten. Etched fine as black scrimshaw, her fingers, that once snapped weevils dead in the hot Alabama sun, slipped thread through needle through scrap until the very end. Nothing was lost — the cast-off shirt became the wings of wild geese; the red curtains were cut to size, a...
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