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The Sun Magazine

The Sun Interview

The Evolutionary Leap

An Interview With Patricia Sun

THE SUN: Let’s pretend that I have no idea who you are, I have no spiritual experience besides having gone to church as a kid, and I believe that what I see on the evening news is actually what’s going on in the world. How do you introduce yourself to me and describe what you do?


A Night Swim

Phillip Fanno was playing with his food. He gave his pork chop a mashed potato beard and moustache, a julienned-carrot nose and mouth, and, not finding suitable eyes on his plate, cast about the table for them.

Kudzu Dreams

I was a child with a peculiar and passionate hunger for the peppermint in toothpicks when I went on a lion hunt with Opal Lavender, who was my favorite person and one of my own people. We were underneath a giant maple tree, sitting on the crab grass of our lawn, and I was trying not to sit too close to a planter containing a cactus. She said, “Irene, do you know what a lion hunt looks like? Would you like to go on a lion hunt with me? Kiss your mother goodbye. (Just smack your lips.) Now, shut the door. (Clap your hands one time.) Let us start walking. (Hands on your knees, pat first one, then the other.) You start walking and you come to a big ditch and you raise your arms and jump right over. (Raise your arms, Irene.) Then you walk right on and you come to a river. There is no bridge, so you wade across. (Slip your fingers together and clasp your hands, making a slush sound.) I think there are some crocodiles and alligators, too. Now, walk right on. (Pat your knees.)

The Flag-Draped Coffin

Oron flanks left with the small platoon of formally dressed sailors, all in ceremonial blue wool, all armed with parade M-1 rifles. The overcast sky is ashen on this mid-November day, and the wind pulsates bleakly over this little land of the dead. Heads held high and white hats glowing, the sailors march through the wrought-iron gates, over which Oron notices the words: Barrancas National Cemetery.


*NOTE: Original copies of this issue are no longer available. Unbound, laser-printed copies will be provided for print orders.

Readers Write

Two Worlds

It’s a steaming summer afternoon in New York City. I’m walking up Seventh Avenue in the Village. In an instant, I see a yellow car coming down the street with a pig-tailed black girl leaning out the back window. She’s peering through an instamatic camera and grinning with the biggest teeth I’ve ever seen. Gleefully she snaps a photo as her car races by an abundant sidewalk nursery I’m just passing.

Personal Stories By Our Readers ▸


Yet no matter how deeply I go down into myself my God is dark, and like a webbing made of a hundred roots, that drink in silence.

Rainer Maria Rilke

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