Every Day,
A Century


Fireflies are little things seen through an eight year old boy’s eyes—fuzzy brown legs passing through dark green, net in hand, sounds of the Chattanooga river, your name being called in the distance. So it’s funny when you’re 23 and a girl and you see ‘em hovering round a bush at a Super 8 in Dalton, you can almost feel this other life. In the morning you float down the river, you rest your head on a raft, you open and close your eyes, green, black, green, black, blue sky, thinking, yes, this is what it would be like.

Amanda Martin


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