I’ve never liked American reality TV because there’s so much hyperbole, yelling and arguing that reminds me of my childhood, that cramped home, the screaming matches, the constant fighting over money. (Fiction)
Author: Another Chicago Magazine
This is the day I am told I’m not essential. “I am too,” I say.
Moving beaters hacked and coughed like emphysema patients. (Fiction)
The space between the woman and the art flattened until she felt she was the art. (Fiction)
I had to be in lockdown with a soon-to-be-ex-husband.
A trifecta of trilliums, a triplicity of trilliums.
(Nonfiction)
Oh, food. It is such a deft [and daft] distraction. It absolutely changes the narrative.
Nowhere in the Five Big Ones does it say we have to be well read. Which is good. (Drama)
A response to some of the fun and humor and movement of the poem. (Translations)
Hunter said she aims to “visually discuss law and society in slavery and racism through physical spaces.”
What does it mean when most of your countrymen live in Moscow or Los Angeles? (Fiction)
Once, existence was on/full speed, catching rumors.
(Nonfiction) We don’t know names, on our street.
his desire heated to almost a reckoning, and I
I waited for a stimulus check that I doubted would come.
I’d sip on my coffee while showing off my fishnet thigh-highs.
OK is two empty letters, trapped in a meaningless alphabet, created by those who had vision, who thought we could do better than we were doing.
Reviewer Matt Meade writes, “These sixty or so mean little tales come across as dispatches from some strange world, as if Grimms’ fairy tales all took place in a moldy locker room.”
“I don’t see what you could do, unless you want to pay for a hotel room.”
Social distancing is a luxury only for the rich.
The beauty of code is instant gratification: I implement a feature, I test the feature, I see it work or fail.
Although Donald Trump is never mentioned in his new book, “King of Confidence,” Miles Harvey admits the current president “hangs over every sentence in the book.” An interview by Donald G. Evans
“I loved this book immensely,” writes reviewer Alina Stefanescu. “I have nothing to compare it to outside that love.”
I assume everyone is wondering when we’ll get to that third cup of wine.
Cash has grown more tattered than usual.
I saw you, Allen Ginsberg, gloveless.
We still can’t believe there’s nothing there at all but ugly. We feel woozy in his rank backwind.
The terrified revolutionaries binge on Netflix.
