From the print issue: The Runout – Creating Music and Community In Different Ways By Kevin Oliver

There’s a moment on the new album from The Runout, Just As Real, that may sum up the past four years of the band’s existence. On “Light a Fire,” Jeff Gregory sings, “Do you think we could light a fire and stand around until we feel better? I’ll leave it to you now.” They lit a fire back in 2021 with their last full-length record, With Your Eyes Closed, and while they haven’t exactly been standing around, the band has spent the better part of the interim exploring what it means to make music together, and separately, and where they fit in the context of the greater community. 

“There was writing all along, and intention,” says Gregory, the band’s principal songwriter, singer, and guitarist. “The whole while, I was making music, and getting pissed off about making music, like we all do. There were some of these songs that we played live for a couple of years or more, too. And then it got to a point where it was just that we needed to record, that I was dragging my heels, it felt like.” 

Outside of some infrequent singles put online, the first project to see release over the summer was Hidden Variable, a short EP of songs featuring the acoustic duo version of the group, just Gregory and his wife Kelley B. Gregory, who provides crucial, sound-defining harmony vocals. Her presence softens Jeff’s sometimes stark, percussive style in ways that are hard to describe without hearing them together, as the voices intertwine in ways that only true intimacy and connection can muster. The duo arrangements really bring out the pair’s influences, with “When” evoking classic Simon and Garfunkel harmonies, and “The Millstone” possessing the plainspoken profundity of Dawes. It’s also an indicator of the upward progression of Gregory’s songwriting, which stands tall even in the unflinchingly exposed acoustic format. Take these opening lines from “The Millstone”: 

i'm grateful for the grain

even Tuesday mornings never felt the same without the pain

i can picture raindrops falling on the blades of green

now the oats roll in my hands above this screen

like we rolled out in the fields in younger days

 In one verse he’s expressed gratitude, a work ethic, and nostalgia for a more innocent time; the song goes on to describe, in the words of the introduction on the album’s Bandcamp page, “that blue collar urge to just survive and be a fucking good person in the modern era of perverse capitalism.” It’s a delicate balancing act, but one that Gregory has seemingly mastered. 

Working this time around with producer and fellow musician Todd Mathis on the full band recordings, the parts were done in some different ways, Gregory says.

“My guitar parts and Kelley’s vocals were done in our kitchen on both the duo EP and the full band songs,” He says. “The EP was put out as-is, just us. For the band songs we shipped everything over to Todd, who put all the pieces together in his studio.” 

Perhaps the biggest change in the way things were being done in recent years was the addition of the Runout Duo, putting Jeff and Kelley in places the band had never gone, and exposing them, their sound, and their original music to more and more audiences. 

“The organic thing that has happened really slowly, but really surely with this is that we’re seeing people who are coming to a duo show at Columbia Craft, for example, and the next full band show they’re also showing up to see us as a full band.” The two feed off each other, in Gregory’s opinion.  

“When we started doing the duo three years ago, I cut back to a two day a week job, from full time, so we could schedule more shows,” He says. “I’ve worried less about having a digital presence, playing the algorithm game, and building a huge social media crowd, and leaned more into the shows, the live music side of things.” 

Gregory feels it has paid off in a more connected, loyal audience. “I’m finding that people are showing up, buying the shirts, wanting to have a physical CD or to be able to listen to the songs they hear us play,” He says. “It’s not hundreds of people–but it’s 45, or 50 people, that keep showing up.” 

Those duo show experiences, playing covers for the bar and restaurant crowds alongside the original music, have fed the band as well. With Moses Andrews on bass, Mike Scarboro on drums, and Chris Compton on lead guitar, those other band members have been active outside of the Runout as well, with Andrews in particular releasing solo albums and playing in Patrick Davis’s Midnight Choir band, Scarboro playing drums with a host of others, and Compton has a long discography of his own excellent songwriting and music. 

“We’re all creative individuals,” Andrews says. “You bring all those other experiences back here and now you’re at rehearsal jamming on a cover that Jeff and Kelley have been doing as a duo and ‘Hey let’s see what it sounds like with the whole band,’ and that grows the sound of the band that way. It’s also a function of how the music community in Columbia makes it easy, whether it’s professionally branching out, or just creative opportunities.” 

“We try to have the culture of a family,” Scarboro says. “We like to set up practices with food, have a hangout session, and then maybe try to play some music. When you know each other so well, know each other’s personalities, you’re more comfortable delivering a new line, or an opinion or a thought on a song–So everybody feels like they can toss something out and see what Jeff says, and he’s really good about leaving a lot of openness for us to just kind of do our thing.” 

Those close personal connections and years of playing both together and apart lend the band’s songs an easygoing familiarity, even if they’re new like the latest release. “Me and the Lord” is a great example, and one of the most fully fleshed out arrangements featuring the whole band. Over a rollicking organ and piano accented tune that’s straight out of the Leon Russell school of 1970s ensemble rock, Gregory declaims a non-materialistic way of living life and practicing one’s spiritual faith.

 “and I ain't got money much

it gets between me and the lord

that may sound funny but

there ain't that much I can't afford”

“There seems to be a way that we do things, and I don’t know what culture this comes from–is it church culture? Nashville culture? In terms of music with formal stuff like lead sheets,” Gregory says. “Sometimes it just happens, sometimes songs are more format based and we can work them out like that.”   

Then there are the ones that are more difficult, requiring more work. “Sometimes songs take a long time; ‘Currency’ was one that I wrote three times thinking that the guitar lick was going to be for something else,” Gregory says. “Then finally some other words felt better with it, and it settled, and never turned into anything else–and that was over the course of years. But then, some songs I write in five minutes.”  

One result of the recent recording sessions is that they have found some things that really work well for them, Gregory says. “We realized that we really enjoy recording our vocals live, around one microphone, to get the harmony,” he says. “Because our harmonies lock differently in the timing if we try to record separately and then blend it in later. So it has just been moving us forward, on all sides.” 

There’s even more movement in the works, Gregory says, with more releases planned out.

“All of the live shows that we did this past spring that were full band, Moses did a multi-track recording off the board feed,” He says. “So there’s going to be a full band live recording from those shows that comes out in early 2026, fingers crossed.”

It’s a strategic release, to put a bit of a marker down for the current lineup of the band which is still playing songs from throughout the group’s discography. “What that’s going to do for people who might just say ‘Oh cool, we get to hear a live version of ‘Currency’,’ but what some may not realize is that when they listen to that original album recording it’s not the people that they’re seeing live on stage now–so this will give them the current lineup playing these songs the way they see them do it on stage.” 

There is a method to this multitude of material, Gregory says, even if they haven’t quite figured out what that is, exactly. “What we’re doing with all of this is that I’m trying to commit more to putting out tunes,” he says. “But now the question is if it’s going to happen in a duo format, or in the studio with the band, or did it happen at Mardi Gras last year and now you’ll hear it as that live version? We want to do songs in all these kinds of ways, and I want to make an authentic and earnest representation on a regular basis in town that people can access in different places.”

 What the Runout has found, it seems, is their people. “EZ Shakes has been saying it for years, and they do it differently than we do,” Gregory says. “But it’s possible to create your niche, create your community, and they can nurture you. We have found that if you consistently make your music available and you’re patient, there are lots of interesting crowds–and they overlap. We don’t give people enough credit, I think, for what they’re interested in, and they’ll come out of the woodwork to find you and support you. Chris had different people supporting his solo music than we have supporting us, and Moses has different people, too. People are just hungry for that organic experience.” 

Jasper Magazine photos by Perry McLeod

Don’t miss your next chance to see, hear, & enjoy

The Runout

Dec 20th at Greener Pastures Brewing 6-9p

Camden, SC

From the print issue: Becci Robbins Writes About Her Long-Time Passion Project - G.R.O.W. - reposted from Jasper Magazine

Becci Robbins

She sits at the corner of Elmwood and Marion, low-slung and unassuming, a stone’s throw from the red dome marking the old lunatic asylum on Bull Street (not to be confused with the other domed asylum, on Gervais). Unless you’re looking for her, she’s easy to miss. The hand-painted sign out front is dimly lit and reads simply GROW — Grass Roots Organizing Workshop.

It’s Thursday evening, and traffic is thinning on Elmwood Avenue. The setting sun is reflected in the building’s front window, streaking it copper and gold. The door is propped open, letting in a blessed breeze and a slow trickle of musicians setting up for the night’s show. 

Chris trundles in with his upright, fires up the sound system, adjusts mics, turns on some background music, classic jazz. Antron and Ken come in, carrying music stands and their saxophones, followed by Dionne, who sets up her keyboard under the unblinking gaze of a pensive MLK. Joe makes several trips to his car to set up his drum kit. Geoff unpacks his guitar and settles onto a stool in the corner. Seitu makes the rounds, dispensing hugs, and pleasantries. Sara wanders in with a bag of tangerines and fresh outrage about the day’s news. 

My husband, Brett Bursey, stocks the bar and preps the cash drawer. I rearrange the tables that were moved when the peace group met here two days ago, and plug in the sound-activated disco lights. I set out fresh water and ice. Wash grapes, slice pound cake, arrange cookies on a platter. 

I never tire of the ritual, or the people. By now, they feel like family, and this corner of Columbia feels like home. For three years, we have gathered here twice a month for jazz workshops. In August, we added blues to the menu, so we now offer live music every Thursday night. It is a joyful noise — loud enough to mute, if only for a few hours, the freak show raging outside. 

The free jam sessions have cultivated a loyal following, with seasoned professionals sharing the stage with young talent. There is a generosity of spirit on stage and in the audience that favors participation over flawless performance. Because you never know who is going to show up, the shows are always fresh. Sometimes, they are pure magic.

A friend calls it therapy. She is not alone. So many of us are craving connection in these socially fractured and politically dangerous times. Gathering like this feels like resistance. 

The regulars begin to arrive. Patricia and William secure their favorite table in back. The single ladies gravitate to the stuffed chairs by the window. There’s lovely Toni, and radiant Maris, and sweet Fran with her street-wise Pomeranian, Tito. There’s Nancy and Curt, who plays a mean sax. Our former neighbor, Stan, has brought with him a visiting relative. Femi stops by the bar to donate two bottles of Cabernet. Others leave offerings on the food table. The snacks and beverages are free, but an old-school piggy bank welcomes donations. 

By now, most visitors know that GROW is meat-free, for reasons listed on a sign next to the kitchen (in short because we care about the planet, animals, and public health). To help drive the point home, there is a picture of a pig wearing a flower crown that reads, ransom-note style, KiLL the PAtriaRchy, NoT PiGs. 

First-timers are as easy to spot as tourists in Rome. They stand in the back or perch on the settee in the hall, taking it all in. The variegated crowd. The raft of musicians up front. The handouts by the door promote meetings and events. The shelves stuffed with history books and biographies. The walls are papered with flyers, postcards, and old posters — No Nukes, ERA YES, Save the Whales, Bob Dylan, Bob Marley, Jimi Hendrix — and portraits of Che, Robert Smalls, Frederick Douglass, Sarah and Angelina Grimké.

A large chart illustrates the state’s gerrymandered legislature, a grim pictograph of our rigged system.

Fran Cardwell with Tito — Photos courtesy of the author

Most of the posters hung in the original GROW, a worker collective that was a hub of progressive activism from the late ’70s through the early ’90s. Longtime Columbia residents will remember the building behind the old ballpark with the mural of the Incredible Hulk smashing through the front wall. 

Started by veterans of the anti-war and anti-nuclear movements, GROW sustained itself by running a cafe and a print shop. It expressed itself by publishing its own journals — Harbinger and, later, POINT, a monthly newspaper that for 10 years happily skewered the Palmetto State’s bad actors and power elite. 

In 1996, GROW started the SC Progressive Network, a coalition of organizations with a shared belief that we are stronger united than separate, when we collaborate, share resources, and show up for each other, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

While the Network has evolved over the years, its core mission remains the same: to power a movement for social and political reform that benefits us all, not just the monied few. Politically, we are anti-partisan and choose our legislative battles with care.

Strategically, we focus our time and energy on South Carolina. As we say, “We can’t change DC until we change SC.” 

In 2009, the Network leased the Modjeska Simkins House, keeping offices and holding meetings there for a decade, until the home was converted to a museum. Simkins had mentored and inspired the activists at GROW in the 1980s, so it seemed a perfect fit. And it was while it lasted. 

We were homeless for a while, but after an extensive hunt for a place to call our own, the Network came full circle back to Marion Street, buying the property next door to the Simkins House in 2019 — just in time for the pandemic. 

The timing seemed awful but, in hindsight, the lockdown gave us time to renovate the building properly and the incentive to install a quality AV system to allow for remote meetings and programming. The investment has served the Network well. 

In 2015, the Network launched a school to instruct students of all ages and interests a people’s history of South Carolina — the stories that have been whitewashed or erased altogether — and practical tools for being effective organizers and citizens. We named it the Modjeska Simkins School to honor the woman who showed us how it’s done. Turns out, she had started a leadership institute in the ’40s, with a curriculum eerily mirroring our own. 

In February 2026, we will open enrollment for our 11th session, which will run from March through June. Students from across the state will meet Monday nights in-person at GROW and at satellite sites in other towns, and on Zoom from anywhere. During the semester, the school offers Deep Dives on most Sundays that feature writers, historians, and filmmakers. The programs are free and open to the public. 

It’s last call. It’s been a great ride tonight. Lots of new faces in the audience and onstage. Dickie and Shannon took turns at the keyboard. Seitu did some inspired scat, and Steve wrung the juice out of his flute. Margaret broke hearts with her torch song. Sara torched Elon Musk and “rich people having a ball; rich people fucking us all.” And Cesar, the Louisiana bluesman and harmonica master, broke out his washboard for a call-and-response number that had the room on its feet. 

As the clock inches toward 10, the band launches into “Sugar,” its regular closing number. Nobody gets up to leave, not until the last note is played. Even when the lights go up and the show is over, people linger. 

The band packs up, the helpers have done all they can, and finally the parking lot empties. I take the trash out and roll the recycling bin to the curb. The porch lights are on at the Modjeska House next door. I think about all the people who sat with her there over the years, from Thurgood Marshall in the ’40s to a young Brett in the ’70s. I wonder what she would think of the school, the hippies she mentored. I wonder, too, what she would make of her rebranding. Once called a commie and ostracized from the organization she started, she has now been embraced by the establishment as a civil rights icon.  

I head inside for one last look around. Leisa Marie, a friend from the original GROW days, helps me lock up. Before heading to her car, she gives me a hug and says, “You have built a fine house.” 

I smile and nod. Yes, yes, we have. 

Becci Robbins is Communications Director for the SC Progressive Network.

This article appeared in the Fall 2025 issue of Jasper Magazine.

GROW is located at 1340 Elmwood Avenue in Columbia, SC. Visit GROW for Jazz Workshops on first and third Thursdays and Blues Workshops on second and fourth Thursdays, from 8 – 10 pm. For more information about GROW consult the website at columbiagrow.com.

From the print issue: Jasper Presents Ceramicist Megan Tapley at Coal Powered Filmworks for Vista Lights!

Tapley’s work always falls into the category of being socio-political in some aspect. She sees the art scene as a proper catalyst for change, with their art being a factor in facilitating it.

Jasper is once again proud to participate in the 2025 Vista Lights celebration and, this year, our featured artist is ceramicist Megan Tapley. A resident artist at Gemini Arts, Tapley will be setting up shop at Coal Powered Filmworks (home of Jasper’s filmmaker extraordinaire and board of directors president Wade Sellers) offering some great items to help you tackle your Holiday gift-buying list. The festivities get under way at 6 pm and Coal Powered Filmworks is located at 1217 Lincoln Street, a couple down from Mike Brown Contemporary and across the street from the Blue Marlin.

Read our article below about Megan Tapley, written by Emily Moffitt, which originally appeared in the fall issue of Jasper Magazine which is on newsstands now.

An Unconditional Approach to Life with Megan Tapley

By Emily Moffitt

Following a traditional lifestyle has never been in the cards for Megan Tapley. Living life to the fullest for them means living a bit unconventionally, but that never stood in the way of them pursuing their own aspirations: making a career out of art.

Megan Tapley, pronouns she/they, graduated from Clemson University in 2024 with a B.F.A. in Ceramics. This was not always their medium of choice, though. “I grew up in many accelerated art programs, which introduced me to ceramics at a young age,” says Tapley. “However, I did not pursue ceramics until college.” Tapley finds that her artistic practice is best when they balance their time between multiple disciplines, so they also engage in collaging, filling out their sketchbook, and building sculptures when not focusing on their ceramics. They are inherently driven to be creative, and as such they find any outlet they can to express their creativity.

However, regardless of the medium, Tapley’s work always falls into the category of being socio-political in some aspect. She sees the art scene as a proper catalyst for change, with their art being a factor in facilitating it. Much of Tapley’s portfolio revolves around femininity, thus leading to a body of work that focuses on the female form, reproductive rights, and the role of women in the South. Tapley says, “I feel led to make this work because of my own personal identity as a woman in the South, but I also feel led to make this work to open the conversation up.” The conversations she references are meant to be inviting rather than polarizing, especially among women. Her senior exhibition included a wide variety of vessels that represented different female forms and the desire for bodily autonomy, in a socio-politically charged statement. These differences in form, shape, and size are all meant to bridge gaps and spark up conversations of intersectionality and change as according to Tapley, “I chose to make my work inviting rather than polarizing in hopes that we can all find common ground amongst the issues we face as women.”

Tapley was born and raised in Irmo and found themself returning to the Midlands after finishing their undergraduate degree. The excitement of being a Gen Z artist in a growing community allured her, creating in them a sense of confidence in seeking out a “riskier” life, separate from the stable, 9-to-5 lifestyle other generations seem to encourage the next generation to pursue. “I think being a young artist in a growing community is a good thing,” says Tapley. “I’ve been able to gain a lot of opportunities in the last three months by being willing and able to help grow and foster the arts community here.”

Despite just starting their post-grad career, Tapley has already made great strides by becoming a resident artist at Gemini Arts and has been elected as the inaugural Gemini Arts President. The position comes with a heavy workload but is an optimal role to produce cool opportunities for her fellow artists in the studio. Making the effort to involve themself in the community is the kind of advice that Tapley offers any other young artist trying to participate in Columbia’s creative landscape. “My biggest advice is to apply to everything,” says Tapley. “The worst someone can tell you is no, and you never know where an opportunity will lead you.” Of course, Tapley also warns of the problems with saying “yes” to everything, and that it is okay to only pursue chances that are in your best interest and push your career further forward.

Tapley knows that the path of an artist is not always the easiest to take. Facing the reality of the “starving artist” narrative that many peers still harbor helped Tapley understand the importance of having true allies in your corner, ones that do support you and your craft unconditionally. Tapley says, “I feel that having people around me who question my career choices is just something that will always be an obstacle, so my way of overcoming this has been to unconditionally believe in myself.” Adopting an unwavering sense of confidence is key advice for anyone trying to break into the art scene, especially younger artists. Tapley has proven through their growing role at Gemini Arts and consistent booking of arts exhibitions that they have internalized key experiences and connections and utilized them to further their career.

In-progress art from Megan Tapley

They say, “I have learned to take feedback from those who have pursued a career in the arts, rather than giving too much attention to those who do not understand the life and career I have chosen to lead.”

Tapley is an active member of the Gemini ceramics community, and a staple in bringing awareness to the power of political commentary through art, especially for women of all ages.

From the print issue - REVIEW: THE WEIRD GIRL, Weirdness Becomes Witness—And a Way to See Our Own City Clearly

By Christina Xan

Carla Damron writes with one foot in the world of fiction and the other in the very real, very personal world of social work. In Columbia, SC where Damron herself is deeply rooted, her books feel less like imported thrillers and more like dispatches from our own streets. Her last novel, The Orchid Tattoo (Koehler Books, 2022), introduced readers to Georgia Thayer, a social worker caught up in a case involving human trafficking. With The Weird Girl (Stillwater River Publications, 2025) Damron continues Georgia’s story, this time shifting the focus to the fentanyl epidemic. The message is clear: these crises don’t just happen out there. They are happening here, woven into the fabric of Columbia. And even more striking, these crises don’t just happen but are willfully created and supported.

The plot begins with a party. Sara Clark, a high schooler, leaves the Hawthorne family’s gathering impaired by fentanyl and is struck by a Hawthorne car. Who was behind the wheel remains unclear at first, and the uncertainty becomes central to the novel’s unraveling. It looks at first like a teenage tragedy compounded by privilege, the kind of scandal that might be swept aside by lawyers and money. But in Damron’s telling, this hit-and-run becomes the key to a much larger story about how fentanyl seeps into schools, families, and emergency rooms. By the time Sara is stabilized in the ER where Georgia works, we’ve already seen this community is tainted: Cooper’s father Fletcher, a solicitor with political ambitions, will do anything to protect his son, even if it means leaning on Marcus Landry, a local drug boss. What follows isn’t so much an investigation as a slow peeling back of how deep the rot goes.

As in The Orchid Tattoo, Georgia is the heart of the novel. She is a foster mother as well as a social worker, and that dual role makes the crisis achingly personal. Her teenager Tessa hovers at the edges of temptation, just one bad decision away from the ER cases Georgia sees night after night. And Georgia herself isn’t a flawless hero: she struggles with the stigma of her own mental health history, and DSS officials question whether she is “fit” to foster at all. That tension—between how institutions judge and how individuals care—gives the book its power.

Pulling from her own experience in care work, Damron writes in short, fast-moving chapters that keep the pages turning. Her style isn’t about excess lyricism or flourish but about clarity and momentum. Conversations carry much of the weight, and sometimes you can feel the exposition slip in a bit too neatly. But the accessibility is the point: the book is designed to move, to pull you through the overlapping crises with emotional immediacy. She also shifts perspectives, weaving between Georgia, the teenagers, the Hawthornes, and even those entangled in the drug trade. That kaleidoscopic structure keeps the story from narrowing into a single vantage point and forces us to see the crisis as it ripples across every layer of the community. The result is a thriller that doesn’t just keep you hooked but keeps you alert to what’s at stake. You don’t forget that Georgia’s exhaustion mirrors that of real ER staff, or that Sara’s overdose echoes the tragedies that have played out in real schools.

What continues to help The Weird Girl stand out from more formulaic crime fiction is how it blends genre with social realism. The bones of a police procedural are here—an abduction, a cover-up, a climactic raid—but Damron keeps pulling us away from the lone-wolf detective narrative. Georgia is no hard-bitten cop; she’s a woman whose strength lies in care, in community, in refusing to look away from suffering. Even the simmering tension between her and Detective Lou, which could feel like a genre cliché, is rooted in trust and mutual reliance rather than sweeping romance. The book isn’t interested in distracting us with passion so much as reminding us that these characters are human, bruised and still reaching for connection.

The strongest thread of all is the way Damron interweaves the personal and the systemic. On one side, our characters each have their own struggles: Georgia holding onto her foster daughter, Sara fighting for her life, Lily Grace abducted after witnessing too much, Tessa wavering between rebellion and trust. These are characters—often women and girls—who do not fit, whose weirdness becomes their power. Their voices are distinct and their struggles tangible, which prevents the fentanyl crisis from collapsing into abstraction. On the other hand, you have the structural forces: Fletcher’s backroom deals, Marcus’s grip on the supply chain, DSS threatening to rip a family apart on a technicality. What could feel like two novels occurring side by side, Damron expertly merges together through her cast of distinct characters and interactions. A party overdose ripples into political corruption, a vigilante firebombing underscores the desperation of citizens abandoned by institutions, and every small story reveals the larger system grinding in the background. The book doesn’t let readers rest with the easy conclusion that drugs are bad, one we can easily separate ourselves from. Instead, it insists we reckon with how entrenched power protects the pipeline, and how entire communities are complicit in the harm.

Reading The Weird Girl feels urgent because Damron refuses to exoticize the crisis. She writes Columbia as Columbia, with no comforting distance. And while that specificity makes the book hit especially hard for those of us here, its urgency isn’t limited by geography. The networks of privilege, corruption, and exploitation Damron exposes are recognizable in cities and towns everywhere. The point isn’t just that it happens here, it’s that it can, and does, happen anywhere. The result is a thriller that doesn’t just entertain but unsettles, reminding us that these networks of corruption and compromise are not only possible but present. It’s a crime novel that asks readers to face the realities behind the headlines, and to consider what it means to fight for care in systems designed to fail.

If The Orchid Tattoo announced Georgia Thayer as a protagonist worth following, The Weird Girl confirms it. Damron has carved out a space in the crime genre that is less about puzzle-solving and more about moral witnesses, less about lone heroes and more about collective survival. For readers in Columbia, the novel lands close to home, but its reach extends well beyond these stories could unfold in any city where privilege shields the powerful and fentanyl devastates the vulnerable. Damron’s accomplishment is to make us see both at once.

Christina Xan is a former intern and member of the board of directors for the Jasper Project and is currently assistant professor of English at Northwestern Oklahoma State University.

The original version of this review appears in the Fall 20025 issue of Jasper Magazine.