We will give the name chronotope (literally ‘time space’) to the intrinsic connectedness of temporal and spatial relationships that are artistically expressed in literature. Continue Reading Chronotopia
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“I’m no more your mother Than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow Effacement at the wind’s hand. —Sylvia Plath, “Morning Song”
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Autumn snakes through the suburbs, claiming one tree after another. It sheds a skin of dead leaves.
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label me all you want, but i’m an easy, logical man of faith nonetheless.
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Regnauld was somewhere further up towards the transept, turned toward the statuary of the chapel of Sainte Thérèse.
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campfire crackles, spits sparks into black sky, crackle like old woman laughter.
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You were a dream come false. I woke up smiling. That was a rare moment when I felt free of you, when the walls weren’t made of you and I ...
The attack on Aristotle’s theory of the quintessence is merely a preliminary to demolishing his conclusion: that the universe was eternal because that fifth element, ether, has a circular motion; ...
Light reflects and refracts along the mirrorball, strawberry laserbeams spilling into a smoke-machine sea, and as one fleshbug crests the next wave, our eyes fix…. Continue Reading Bitflip
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“I’m not an actress. Hello out there—” rapping my knuckles on my head “—anybody listening? I dropped out of acting school. Can you hear me?”
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Feeling her press her body up against mine is better than lying on the kitchen floor alone. Continue Reading Cuffing Season
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In my bedroom, after we’d finished (he went on for ages – seems to take pride in that), we lay in the bed with nothing to say. We lay like ...
“I love you so much,” my husband told me quietly as he moved farther away from my unclothed body, wrapping himself within the sheets and letting out a muffled ...
Everything was shaping up for a perfect midsummer night. Rainey stowed the wok and the coolers with the oil, samosas, fruit, ice and bottles in the prow of the dinghy.
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“Go away!” I said. I looked at him, and although I knew he was different, he might still act like them. He’d have told me something and when I disagreed, ...
A charming lively plaza in el barrio de Gracia, behind a lone lit window on the third floor, a nineteen-year-old girl smokes a cigarette.
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The first to go, thinks Rachel, the first supporting wall yanked out. The five of us no longer solid and inevitable and filling the spaces of this house, but exposed ...
“We can do whatever we want,” she says. “And come on, someone needs to teach those fuckers that what they did is wrong.”
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During Noche Buena, Doña Teresa recounted the time Alvaro’s corpse fell on her. Don Alvaro was a South American stereotype: brushed mustache, Roman Catholic, intolerant. Continue Reading Dr ...
Edson wondered if ghosts existed and whether they longed to be of the flesh. He imagined his little brother bobbing in the ocean, his dress billowing like a Portuguese man-of-war, ...
