Old Things are Meant to Be Found and Shared

By Leanna Renee Hieber

Dear Reader,

A very curious thing happened on a Greenwich Village tour I have been known to lead as a reincarnate Victorian, antiquated speaker and consummate old soul; a walking tour that takes guests along the very same paths that famed horror writers Edgar Allan Poe and Howard Phillips Lovecraft walked in prior centuries when they lived in the West Village. I speak passionately of the stories these men penned in and about certain locations, and of course I must throw in the occasional ghost story as no tale is complete without supernatural influence. I think of Greenwich Village as a sort of spiritual and literary haven. And I’m hardly the only writer to have thought so. There’s quite a legacy on its streets and behind its townhouse facades.

I was nearing the end of my lecture, building my love of history and of Old New York into an artful crescendo when I stumbled across a weather-beaten leather volume, placed directly in my path, leaning against the foot of a gnarled tree. The roots had begun to upend the sidewalk leveled ineffectively to suppress its growth. The black volume, its corners damp with an odd oil, gleamed in the vaguely sulfuric glow of those modern streetlamps built to appear historic. The iron posts of replica gas lamps pepper many old neighborhoods where landmarking laws protect architectural treasures against the ravening jaws of modernity’s bulldozers. Their amber light illuminates a history reinventing itself into an uncertain future. (Continue Reading…)

Where the Brass Band Plays

by Katie McIvor

The day I found seaweed on my sister’s shoes was the beginning of the end, for me as well as her. I grabbed her by the shoulders as she tried to scoot past me into the house. “Audrey, where’ve you been? Were you at the beach?”

She looked behind her. At the green-slimed tennis shoes she’d left by the front door, with brownish globules of air bladders squished between the laces. A frown creased her little face.

“A bunch of us went,” she said, in the high-pitched whine she always adopted when she was being defensive. “Just along the shore a bit. It’s not a big deal.”

I crouched so our faces were level. “Audrey, you don’t go near the beach. Not without me or Dad. Okay?”

“O-kay, Ve-ra,” she sing-songed. She was only seven, and I couldn’t always tell if she was being sarcastic.

She ducked around me and slipped into the kitchen. I heard her greeting Dad. I heard the comforting rumble of his big deep voice asking her how school had been, and I stared after her with an ache that was half-panic and half-dread clenching my guts. (Continue Reading…)

The Fruits of

By Chelsea Davis

They’d long since passed the point where road gave way to trail gave way to forest. Bright green ferns now rose to their knees. Around them, old-growth redwoods loomed forth. It had been like this for miles: only trees, ferns, the sweet scent of pine, and the two walkers, lost and silent.

At least, Amber was fairly sure they were lost. Anton’s navigational methods didn’t exactly inspire confidence. The gruff, stout man in a camo sweatshirt and buzzcut—both style choices that were, she now suspected, aspirational rather than markers of actual military service—barely ever paused to check his compass or beat-up map. Amber didn’t dare question him, though. He had a fragile ego and a short temper, a powder keg of a personality that had both scared and intrigued her when they’d first met behind Danny’s Pub last month. He’d told her, then, with a smug calm that made her breathe harder, that she had literally nothing to go on without him and his knowledge of the nightfruit. “Zilch. Zip,” he’d slurred in the bar alleyway, slashing his Miller from left to right in the universal gesture for “nothing.” His small eyes had shone watery in the red light of the bar sign above the back door. “Also, first hint of funny business and I’ll leave you out there. Don’t care how far we are from the road.” She’d nodded, handed him the cash, watched him count it.

At least it wasn’t dark out yet in the woods, she told herself, her boots sinking into damp soil again and again. Judging by the sun’s place in the sky, they still had two more hours of decent light. Two hours from now they would hopefully have found what they were looking for. And then it wouldn’t matter whether she could see well. (Continue Reading…)

Every Last Gossamer Strand

By C.J. Dotson

The high windows of the Bluebird Lake Lodge ballroom let in warm afternoon sunlight. Gilded embellishments glowed upon white columns and high door frames, ornate chandeliers glittered, and bloated black flies swarming outside the glass made the light seem to flicker. The insects, tiny intruders from a different kind of place than this, had noticed me so quickly—I’d arrived at the Lodge and its surrounding campground only half an hour ago.

Mother must be lonely. Or whatever her version of loneliness is.

Unsatisfied? Hollow?

Maybe she’d be happy to see me. (Continue Reading…)

The Half-Pint Flask

By DuBose Heyward

I picked up the book and regarded it with interest. Even its format suggested the- author: the practical linen covered boards, the compact and exact paragraphing. I opened the volume at random. There he was again: “There can be no doubt;” “An undeniable fact,” “I am prepared to assert.” A statement in the preface leaped from the context and arrested my gaze:

“The primitive American Negro is of a deeply religious nature, demonstrating in his constant attendance at church, his fervent prayers, his hymns, and his frequent mention of the Deity that he has cast aside the last vestiges of his pagan background, and has unreservedly espoused the doctrine of Christianity.”

I spun the pages through my fingers until a paragraph in the last chapter brought me up standing:

“I was hampered in my investigations by a sickness contracted on the island that was accompanied by a distressing insomnia, and, in its final stages, extreme delirium. But I already had sufficient evidence in hand to enable me to prove ”

Yes, there it was, fact upon fact. I was overwhelmed by the permanence, the unanswerable word of the printed page. In the face of it my own impressions became fantastic, discredited even in my own mind. In an effort at self-justification I commenced to rehearse my impressions of that preposterous month as opposed to Barksdale’s facts; my feeling for effects and highly developed fiction writer’s imagination on the one hand; and on the other, his cold record of a tight, three dimensional world as reported by his five good senses. (Continue Reading…)

Some Say Art Deals with the Unexpected

By James Dorr

ART: The quality or expression or performance of that which is pleasing to the senses; that which is raised to more than ordinary importance.

ARTIST:  One who produces art.

Is art permanent?  I seem to remember they said that in school, but what about music?  I mean, I know there are records and tapes now, but what about before those things were invented?  Would an original performance conducted by Beethoven be any less art because it hadn’t been taped?  Or an opera by Verdi be called commonplace simply because it hadn’t been filmed?

Some say art deals with the unexpected.  A couple of senators — you know, in Washington — say it’s obscene.  I say it’s beauty.

Just that:  Beauty.  It takes in the rest.

The unexpected?  The discovery of beauty in that which is plain.  The found importance.

My wife doesn’t understand art. (Continue Reading…)

Tree of the Forest Seven Bells Turns the World Round Midnight

by Sheree Renée Thomas

Thistle stepped over an upturned root that twisted from the dark, wet earth.

“Your mama live near the river?” “Naw.”

“Your mama live in a tree?” “Nope.”

“Then what we doing?”

“Mama the river and the tree.” She moved with deliberate grace, each footfall a code that unlocked another hidden key. Wilder should have known. Every other word out of her mouth was some strange, cryptic poetry. She was more siren than sage, more whistle than song. In the few months they’d been hanging, he had gotten used to her “magic woman” guise. Bohemian bruja, wide-hipped hoodoo. Unlike the other women Wilder tried to lay with, Thistle felt sincere. At least she was original. Most other relationships Wilder had had, all ended the way he felt now, lost. With the others he would soon lose interest — or they would, tossing him back on the street, the fascination over before it had begun. Then he’d be off, duffel bag in hand, looking for cover. To Wilder, everyone worked so hard to be just like the next. What was the challenge in that? (Continue Reading…)