Dear Readers,

When we launched Waterwheel Review, we were keen to explain why we were so moved and motivated by the image of the waterwheel. Water stands for language, an ever flowing, renewable source; the waterwheel, an engine of labor, circles through, lifting words and then dropping them back into the running stream. Our magazine is a mill, we said, where the waterwheel powers writing and publishing. “We want—and need—to make things.”

For a couple of years, now, we have known that we can’t make enough of our own things while we give so much energy to the work of others. We have had to cut substantially the time and attention devoted to our own writing, and mostly we have been glad to do it, determined to find a way to repay our own work in the end. We never did find that way.

If we could quit our jobs and earn that income publishing this magazine, we would take that deal in an instant. But that’s not the world we live in. For many, many months we have known this, but we couldn’t accept it until now. And thank goodness for that.

Every single issue of this magazine has been a wonder that transported and enchanted us. We can’t say we gloried in every moment. We read or edited or built the site at times while sick, exhausted, grieving—that’s the nature of any publication. But we damn well gloried in every word, every paired image and sound.

Four years and thirty-six issues: What an honor to publish our contributors. What a privilege to offer stunning work to our readers. We must use the word pleasure, too, always rolled out to accompany “honor and privilege,” but pleasure isn’t strong enough, nor is gratitude nor joy nor blessing. For once we find ourselves at a loss for words to express precisely what it has meant to keep this waterwheel turning.

Maybe this will do it: How many times does anyone ever fully achieve the glittering, half-glimpsed vision floating above; that winking, flirting piece of art we ache to manifest? For the three of us, precisely this once.

We will keep making things and so will you. We started this magazine with the image of the waterwheel and a Jean Rhys quote, and we will end in the same way, as we thank you for reading and submitting, and wish you and yours all the very best:

Listen to me. All of writing is a huge lake. There are great rivers that feed the lake, like Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. And there are mere trickles, like Jean Rhys. All that matters is feeding the lake. I don’t matter. The lake matters. You must keep feeding the lake.

—Claire, Suzanne, Cheryl

September 1, 2024: Waterwheel Review will stay online for the foreseeable future. It remains as it looked for the final June 2024 issue.

Faith Allington

Xeroseres: A Lesson

by Faith Allington

April 2024

You learn all about Puccinia in school, how rust fungi are pathogens only suited to their chosen hosts. When the spore lands on a surface, it can germinate with hyphal filaments, touch-responsive as a tongue.

Today we are primarily concerned about seres, the ecological succession of plant communities. The seres are an important part of the Puccinia agreement. Who can tell me two types of seres?

Your hand goes up, quivering with excitement. Hydroseres develop in ponds, lakes, and other bodies of water. Xeroseres are defined by a scarcity of water. You wait for an encouraging nod, a smile to acknowledge your contribution.

The teacher holds up the square containment unit. There are spores pressed against the glass, shimmering in the light and drawn to the room full of lungs. The spores have voices red as blood, orange as flame, yellow as egg yolk. Ever since the discovery they are sentient, and the uneasy agreement between your species, you have wanted to meet them.

When the teacher asks for volunteers, you raise your hand again. No one else moves. Soon, you are standing in front of the class, unscrewing the lid of the unit. The rust spores float free from the glass, tiny clouds of hunger, fine as mist, staining the stale air.

You lift your face towards them, hoping they will choose you for the succession. You have lungs and veins; you have filled your brain with knowledge they need. With no attachments, you will make an excellent host.

But they slide off your skin like motes of light, gathering on someone else, as your eyes burn. How long has everyone known that you are an arid place, scorched and hollow, an absence of water? You close your eyes. One day, you promise yourself, you will find something that will love even your emptiness.

Faith Allington (she/her) is a writer of the mysterious and speculative who resides in the Pacific Northwest. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in journals such as Apex Magazine, Hexagon MYRIAD, Flash Frontier, Cease Cows, and Crow & Cross Keys. When not writing, she’s drinking too much tea and reading a great many books.