The Sunlight Press

1 month ago | thesunlightpress.com | Galen Holley

by Galen HolleyJohnny Cote’ thumped a cigarette out the window of his pickup, and the air rushing in was like a hot slap in the face. It blew back his fine, black hair and dried his dark eyes. Nothing stirred along the straight stretch of unshaded road, and in the distance, mirages shimmered like ghostly water. Waves of heat rippled upward toward a clear blue, merciless sky.

2 months ago | thesunlightpress.com | Pat Tompkins

For our second day of photography, we welcome back the work of Pat Tompkins.  Mushrooms crop up in a variety of types at the end of rainy California winters. These were near Lynch Creek in Petaluma, a stream I often walk past.  The wine glass catching late afternoon sunlight was simply a happy accident on my kitchen counter.

Jan 13, 2025 | thesunlightpress.com | Melissa Llanes Brownlee

by Melissa Llanes Brownlee I hide in my sisters’ closet and drape myself in long mu’umu’u, in flowy peasant blouses, in tight Jordache jeans and dream of walking the hallways at school, my hair brushing my back, my nails and lips, a puckery red, catcalls and envy, trailing behind me as I listen to my father screaming at my mother and I hope they don’t find me I hide myself in muscle, in warrior football jerseys, and bouncy cheerleader girlfriends, in stormy surfing and outrigger paddling, my...

Jan 7, 2025 | thesunlightpress.com | Claire Taylor |Claire Taylor

by Claire Taylor evening arrives gently gathering us in the fading flame of its cupped palms as we walk a slow loop through our heartache day three of his skin like fire and mine goose-pricked by the magnolia breeze, lilac buds blister on thin branches and black stones blink a scatter of tears across pavement grit and sand beneath weary soles the daffodils trumpet spring and I hum along a quiet song of healing, a soft whisper of relief About the photographer: Robert Sharpe is a photographer,...

Dec 5, 2024 | thesunlightpress.com | Bethany Jarmul

by Bethany Jarmul “Mom, it’s blurry out there,” my four-year-old son says of the downpour—as if rain’s essential quality is not its wetness, not the way it soaks through my cotton hood and clean hair, not its ability to feed the pepper plants, to quench the thirst of the deer, to refill our 60% water bodies, not the way it overfills the stream and surrounds our neighbor’s SUV, floods their basement, carries off their trash cans while we watch from above like angels heaven never sent—but...