The curtain is thin in New Orleans. The beyond closer, the dead nearer. You hear it in the wailing music, you see it in the grey mists off the river, you feel it in cold air radiating off sunbaked bricks.
A haunted Keno screen still flashes inside the bar. Some allege that the landlord’s wife goes in there to play and drink wine, as was her habit when the bar was open.
Dear Francine du Plessix Gray
“I’m said to be a very gifted analysand,” you humble-bragged in your interview, quite elegantly. I used to be so efficient with my therapist’s time, but the older I get, the more agile I become at skirting the stuff that makes me ugly-cry. Creative Nonfiction by Candace Walsh
My teammates’ hands reach for a touch, their fingers wiggling like sea anemones in my periphery. In the car ride home, my father teaches me the word charisma. Creative Nonfiction by Susannah Borysthen-Tkacz
Mona Lisa in Bronze
Where had he found rum? I took a sip. It was strong but sweet. Warm from his hands. “In Cuba we have a saying,” he said, “when you drink from my cup, you learn my secrets.” Creative Nonfiction by Dacia Price
Sometimes, during a lull between murders, I realize we’re due for another. Often, within a day or two of me realizing this, something dreadful occurs: a mass shooting; a bombing; a knifing rampage; a truck accelerating along the sidewalk. When this happens, I feel instantaneous remorse, as if I should have tweeted a warning: “Don’t […]