Tag: New Orleans

Thomas Larson: The Music Is Always There, Part 2

November 2014

Reflections on jazz, improvisation, and the New Orleans Jazz Fest, 2014.

Thomas Larson: The Music Is Always There, Part 1

November 2014

Reflections on jazz, improvisation, and the New Orleans Jazz Fest, 2014.

Freestyle

March 2014

The artist’s video productions and photo collages merge dance, animation, street culture, painting, and turntablism.

Margaret Sowell: A St. Joseph’s Walk


March 2014

American South: On returning to family roots in New Orleans and finding an altogether different kind of tribe.

Teow Lim Goh: The Limits of Charity

January 2014

Disasters may be natural, but who survives and who suffers most is often political.

Rebecca Solnit: The Arc of Justice and the Long Run

December 2013

The future needs us.

Joe Sexton: Plenty of Misconduct, and 129 Pages of One Judge’s Disbelief

September 2013

A decision in New Orleans overturning the convictions of five police officers for their roles in post-Katrina murders reveals an abundance of prosecutorial misbehavior.

Nick Shapiro: Dreamscapes of Dispossession

February 2013

What does the Southern Wild say about the tame north and the new New Orleans?

Maura Fitzgerald: Better Aim

August 2012

In response to the Wisconsin and Aurora shootings, a writer reflects on communal responsibility, gun violence, and American understandings of difference.

Strangers in the Dark: Tana Wojczuk Interviews John Guare

March 2012

American Playwright John Guare on Tennessee Williams, writing strong dialog, and discovering a New Orleans lost in history.

Student Fiction From New Orleans

September 2009

The following fiction was written by students in the New Orleans area
as part of our
New Orleans Special Issue.

____________________________


The Dead Man

by Adam Gnuse

There wasn’t all too much left of the dead man besides the bones and what must have been his belt buckle. His skull was still intact, but one of his arms was broken and he was missing most of his fingers and toes. He lay underneath one of the large, draping branches of the trees surrounding the sandpit, right outside the clearing we used. Even with the corpse lying in the shadows, it was a perfect hangout; on the river side of the levee, in the batture by the water’s edge, we were free from any adults trying to assert their authority over us. Besides, we had grown to like the dead man and had begun to treat him like he was one of us. We avoided pissing on him and sometimes, we would even pretend to hold conversations with him. We would tell him jokes, ask if he “boned” any girls lately, or maybe just pass him a joe.

Once, after a few hits and beers, a girl and I were …