Rebecca Weiner Tompkins

AFTER YOU SAID I ALWAYS LOSE THINGS The red birthstone fell out of my ring, leaving its crowned prongs empty, a perfect chip chiseled from my heart’s bones. I dreamed being stopped by the long dark walkway w...

Jenny Wade

During the unusually hot Parisian summer of 1924, 38-year-old Vladislav Khodasevich—regarded by Nabokov as the finest Russian poet since Blok—was suffering from an identity crisis. One of 3 million exiled from Soviet Rus...

Alan Kaufman

I first saw the gold crescent of renegade freedom dangling from the lobe of a nameless hairy hippy Goy, his scrawny, insolent neck bound by a red bandanna. He leaned with outthrust hip of impertinent American coolness agains...

Joshua Mohr

I should probably tell you more about the night Blue pushed me off the bar because that was really when our marriage ended. Sure, we stayed together another nine, twelve, maybe  fifteen months more, but nothing was ever goo...

Roland Barthes

The grandiloquent truth of gestures on life's great occasions. --Baudelaire The virtue of all-in wrestling is that it is the spectacle of excess. Here we find a grandiloquence which must have been that of ancient th...

Deborah Pintonelli

I have a date with Henry Henderson. We worked together one long summer canvassing for Greenpeace. Yes, I was one of those annoying young people who stop you on the street when you are rushing to your next appointment. He was...

Sparrow

Silent Calls You know how sometimes the phone rings and when you answer it no one’s there? Many of those calls are made by cats. Science Virgin “I’m a science virgin,” said Adele. “I’ve n...

Celia Farber

Anyway I had a goldfish, a common Woolworth’s goldfish, which I brought home in a water filled plastic bag, and somebody, a man named Rick, I think, who worked for my father, said it would be safe to place him in a concret...

Arthur Nersesian

“Gladyss! Turn on the TV, quick!” “Hold on!” I muttered, having just been awakened from a sound sleep. Assuming it had something to do with my murder case, which my brother knew I was assigned to, I pu...

Edward S. Robinson

Díre McCain is a survivor. Editor in Chief at the internationally-renowned Paraphilia Magazine, which has, since its inception in 2009, built a reputation for writing and art of outstanding quality while existing far beyond...

Drew Hubner

When I awoke at dawn Gene Clark was driving and humming to himself. We’re going to take a side trip to see the folks, he said and then we have a show at Wayne State in Detroit. The car broke down; it would not go ove...

Drew Hubner

photograph by Ted Barron A true Operatic, Gene Clark could have sung stage, and his natural style was that of the Elizabethan ballad, songs that he had traded verses with his father since a bare lad. He learned to keep ...

Drew Hubner

That night in the dark van, as the stark winter night trees made shadows on the old winding and cracked highway, Gene told us of how writing songs and singing them, sometimes performing even made him feel something like he d...

Drew Hubner

When I awoke at dawn Gene Clark was driving and humming to himself. We’re going to take a side trip to see the folks, he said and then we have a show at Wayne State in Detroit. The car broke down; it would not go ove...

Drew Hubner

Roger White showed up in Champaign on his motorcycle, a good thing. Gene played all the new songs in a semi-fugue state. Like he was all alone up there, singing, testifying before God. photograph by Ted Barron Gene s...