Dear reader,

I’m rubbernecking, realizing the distance between me and the blazing highway wreck is wiry thin. I look into the fire as if I can see into it, gazing at an ending rather than just melting metal.

There is always a source, someone or something before. Before the wreck, a tumble. Before the day, moon. Someone for whom I care deeply once told me that the key to good fiction is a strong sense of internal logic. The meaning: before the story, there is a world.

This week, Nass writers search for the rules and rhythm behind stories—the roots, blood, and fiery-hot insides that link our every step.

They imagine an unpretentious amphibian world and the genetic ties between us and everything else; they search for meaning in a moonless birthday and in living with infinite shades of missing; they ask how Gazan priests can make homes outside Palestine and how we can reconsider our relationship with meat and pets. A pulse beats through
their work, announcing a shared logic derived from a common past they are struggling to recognize. They gaze, and no matter where they face, the fiery wreck looks like a rising sun.

Take a step into the fire, past the carnage and metal scraps. Who knows what’s inside?

Frankie Solinsky Duryea, co-EIC