Neema Avashia on being Indian, queer, and Appalachian

Jocelyn Nicole Johnson talks about 'My Monticello'

Invasive

What are these?” Judy asks. She bends way down, peers over the gold rims of her spectacles at something green beside the path. My eyes dash away from her, scan patch snow between silver trunks of beech and birch to find the dogs, team-digging for chipmunks by a stump. Clots…

The Hunt

When he asks “Shotgun?” it takes her a second to realize he’s not wondering where she wants to sit in the truck, but what weapon she wants to bring. Lizzie wrinkles her nose. He knows she doesn’t like guns. “Bow,” she says, and yanks on the door. She has to…

Cave of Forgotten Dreams

After Werner Herzog Four charcoal horses animate in torchlight, that flickering first projector, sans horsemen, pre-Apocalypse. Red ochre palm print by the cave mouth like a house number, or graffito, preserved by landslide— a human touch kept from human touch for 32,000 years, the terms of ingress sealed like a…

Balance

A frantic sound is coming from the laundry room. I drop the book I’m reading, race in, and open the aging pale-yellow washer that doesn’t know how to stop itself. I redistribute the clothes, shut the lid, and stand watch for a few minutes to make sure it stays balanced.…

Smart House

Maxine knows there’ll be trouble the minute she sees the black bear roaming her front yard, a shadow in the drab morning light. It’s small, a youngster, with a chest blaze, and it munches from an ash bush still laden with late fall berries. Thirty-six years on this earth, in…