StateoftheOzarks Weekly

The Pear Tree

BEEN THINKING ABOUT… THE PEAR TREE. The pear tree in the yard has leafed, shade dappled beneath an increasingly hot sun. Mist rose in the holler last night, turning the sunset red. Red sky in morning, sailors take warning. The grass beneath the pear is already thick and raucous, overgrown where the lawn had once…

StateoftheOzarks Weekly

The Divine Hag

BEEN THINKIN’ ABOUT… THE DIVINE HAG. The Ozarks are beautiful in springtime, but springtime is not yet here. I stand atop my own meadow mountain, wind gusts hitting something like 50 miles an hour, and squint into the gale, into the dust, briefly losing my footing and catching myself from falling as the wind intensifies.…

StateoftheOzarks Weekly

The Only Place Left

BEEN THINKIN’ ABOUT… THE ONLY PLACE LEFT. I remember how cold the air was in the lonely hospital garden that Saturday evening in late November. Winter arrives early on the central Iowa plains and the wind played in that empty, man-made canyon, a hollow box of mounded earth and agreeably curved pathways. Over here, a…

Tomato Hills

Tomato Hills

Plate 1. Reeds Spring Tomato Cannery. Tomato Hills by Joshua Heston Solanum lycopersicum. It’s quite a name for the ever’day tomato. A member of the Nightshade family (along with sweet potatoes, peppers and, of course, the deadly nightshade), the tomato is native to the Americas. Some believed for along time that the plants and fruits…

State of the Ozarks Writers & Artists Night

Fall Writers & Artists Competition

Writers & Artists Frequently Asked Questions How do I participate? Email Josh@StateoftheOzarks.net to place your name on the list either as an artist or as a writer. How does this thing work? During the month of August, State of the Ozarks Online Magazine collects written essays. As the essays come in, editor Joshua Heston will…

Nine Summers Ago

Been Thinkin’ About… Nine summers ago. Change. Love. Heartbreak. The passage of time. The pain of self-doubt. Life. Nine summers ago, the tomatoes were ripening. Strawberry season had passed. Cottonwood leaves rippled in the dry August air. And I was on a mission. One I absolutely believed in for no apparent reason. I had known…