by Stacia Laroche

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Back when I was a 12-year old living in the warm rays of my youthful golden days, I used to sit on my rickety front porch steps with a disposable camera in hand taking pictures of every classic car that drove down our suburban street. The first car I ever captured was a 1957 Buick Roadmaster. 

I was captivated by that car because driving it in a time period that it didn’t belong in meant you were taking a risk. It was a deep green, the same shade that belonged to leaves in the forest after returning from the winter. The kind you don’t remember seeing blossom. All of a sudden they’re just there again. 

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by Chase Wootton

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As I looked over the bridge, hundreds of feet above the waters, I couldn’t decide which was more beautiful: her, or the sunset. It unfolded in front of me — a splash of red, gold, and orange across the sky, as if a godly chef had sprinkled oranges, pineapples, and cherries across the heavens. The wind was cool and peaceful, the sky clear of rain, snow, or dreary weather. In front of me, there was only beauty, only color, only depth of goodness.

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