Rashod Ollison: The Soul Serenade of a Music JournalistJanuary 2016
Rhythm, blues, & coming of age through vinyl.
Square WaveJanuary 2016
It seared their eyes. Squinting, they watched the light dilate, divide in six. The rocket fell away, limp, useless, and dark as a new star grew against the storm.
It’s an open secret that every officer, regardless of rank, is allowed to step in and ask for special consideration for one fuck-up.
Eduardo Galeano: God’s Masterpiece or the Devil’s Bad Joke?July 2015
Barbarians and apes—from the Opium Wars to the origin of the species.
Every day I expect to wake up and discover that the morphine has worn off, and that Richard is back to the man he was before the surgery. Instead, quiet.
They had never been this far out in the lake, this lost, this on their own.
Art is a ProblemDecember 2013
Joshua Decter grapples with art’s inherent contradictions; the Los Angeles race riots; and a contemporary artist’s social allegories in response to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict in Art is a Problem.
All The Selves We Have BeenNovember 2013
Writing against the cultural aversion to aging and the aged, the feminist scholar explores our impulse to stop time.
A Dark Tower OpeningMarch 2013
In the face of its stare, I stared back, and the bear slavered in response, shook its thick fur as welcome or warning. . .
Justin Nobel: The Monster GrowsDecember 2012
In an adapted vignette from the author's new book, Standing Still in a Concrete Jungle, a surreal afternoon at a Wall Street lunch spot.
Gone to the ForestJune 2012
His father is more than twice her age but her eyes are pinned to his lips as he speaks to her in his fur-lined baritone.
The World Without YouJune 2012
He’s mopping at his pelvis with a wadded-up tissue, and then he’s mopping her up as well. Already the backs of her thighs are caking up.
HomesickBy Eshkol Nevo, guest-edited by Assaf Gavron
The Arab is so stunned, he doesn’t move. Just stands there with his certificate and his rusty key. Not breathing.
BurialBy Catherine Chung from a novel-in-progress, guest-edited by Alexander Chee
She was limp and sweaty but I snuggled into the comfortable softness of her. They had cut her open, and she was whole. She looked very tired and sick; on her gown, blood bloomed like a slow flower.