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John Zaharick (https://plus.google.com/u/0/114552745332635589255) grew up in coal country Pennsylvania, among forests and mine fires. His love for both writing and science has led him from work as an assistant editor for a weekly newspaper to pursuing a graduate degree in ecology. He is currently trapping mice in the woods of Maryland and writing fiction and poetry.


John Zaharick in our archives
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21 Nov 2022

As far back as I could remember, Oma warned me about the bats. She said they would eat me if they found me exposed at night. But I knew the green light of the moon would protect me, even when I was still smaller than Oma.
The truth is: / she does not have to bend into a ceramic plate to carry us beautifully, & my father / isn't the hand that will break her.
the rattle of the rails, the shuffling-muttering of hundreds of passengers nestled in the one long limb of you
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