eMerge Magazine

Mickey Mantle and Chinaberry Trees by Ron Wallace
As October descends like a feathering of dust in an empty room, the color of fireflies fades from my summer nights beneath a moon, alabaster white. This cooling of air this shortening of the sun has always bothered me. I remember being twelve, sitting in the shade of a chinaberry tree grown to the fence next to the house where my grandmother lived before she didn’t. Rubbing neatsfoot oil into the laces, the palm and pocket of my Rawlings glove, I pretended to hear country music, d

Fall 2024Issue 24: Fall 2024 & Table of Contents

eMerging with a New eNewsletterHear from editors, Charles Templeton and Aubrey Green

Scorpius on the Horizon by Lynn Packham Larson
Standing sentinel in the shallows across the cove, the great blue heron eyed us discreetly as the motor grumbled and we drifted away from the dock moving into the main channel. The heat of the cloudless day softened as we floated over the lake, exploring bluffs and other coves. Later, we arranged our chairs for the view from the dock. The last reflections of the setting sun lighting up the water and the sky growing pale, then colorless, until it became a barely visible blank canvas. We

Mickey Mantle and Chinaberry Trees by Ron Wallace
As October descends like a feathering of dust in an empty room, the color of fireflies fades from my summer nights beneath a moon, alabaster white. This cooling of air this shortening of the sun has always bothered me. I remember being twelve, sitting in the shade of a chinaberry tree grown to the fence next to the house where my grandmother lived before she didn’t. Rubbing neatsfoot oil into the laces, the palm and pocket of my Rawlings glove, I pretended to hear country music, d

Fall 2024Issue 24: Fall 2024 & Table of Contents

eMerging with a New eNewsletterHear from editors, Charles Templeton and Aubrey Green

Scorpius on the Horizon by Lynn Packham Larson
Standing sentinel in the shallows across the cove, the great blue heron eyed us discreetly as the motor grumbled and we drifted away from the dock moving into the main channel. The heat of the cloudless day softened as we floated over the lake, exploring bluffs and other coves. Later, we arranged our chairs for the view from the dock. The last reflections of the setting sun lighting up the water and the sky growing pale, then colorless, until it became a barely visible blank canvas. We

Mickey Mantle and Chinaberry Trees by Ron Wallace
As October descends like a feathering of dust in an empty room, the color of fireflies fades from my summer nights beneath a moon, alabaster white. This cooling of air this shortening of the sun has always bothered me. I remember being twelve, sitting in the shade of a chinaberry tree grown to the fence next to the house where my grandmother lived before she didn’t. Rubbing neatsfoot oil into the laces, the palm and pocket of my Rawlings glove, I pretended to hear country music, d

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