First came the Nip. Then the Whirl. Elana pumped her fists and rose from the chair, head bobbing, until she bumped a low branch and loosed a rain of cicada shells. Sighing, Sam plucked the molted

As reported in Mawrdew Czgowchwz, Mawrdew Czgowchwz, oltrano, born Maev Cohalen at Convent-on-the-Rock, Connemara, on Easter Sunday, 1916, left New York in the fall of 1956 to go to Dublin to star in the motion picture Pilgrim Soul, the story of Great Flaming Maev Cohalen, her mother, Ireland’s Joan of Arc. The picture, a Hyperion Productions feature, directed by Orphrey Whither, graphy in early November.

Timmy and Mark Rothko are walking east on 86th Street, two more white kids playing black. Fucking crazy. They are both wearing FUBU (For Us By Us) with their Timberland boots, sizes nine and ten respectively.

The car Mary drove was a borrowed 1954 three-and-a-half-liter Alma Mercury. Spidery cracks in the leather upholstery snagged against her silk blouse as she shifted her weight to heave the wheel

I was afraid she’d look at me as if I were a perfect stranger who had nothing to do with her and never would.

Once I wrote in violet ink in my boudoir, with slippered feet tucked beneath my chair, where no adversity but a little rain could ever touch me; no adversity, but what my own soul wrought.

Nineteen miles west of town, Drew’s client Mike and his wife Carol summered in a neighborhood of attractive homes along the meandering Bluebird Creek, formerly Bog Creek. The development was known locally as Snob Hollow. While the occupants were not all snobs, there was little time in the accelerated northern summer for mingling with locals, what Bluebird Creekers called “fraternizing.” But the Khourys were different, self-­consciously inclusive, inviting often inappropriate local guests to their gatherings—­gun nuts, fellow Pickleballers, smiling evangelicals, conspiracy theorists, and cabinetmakers—­despite the likely awkwardness. Mike was fond of saying, “You can learn a lot by observing fish out of water” and “I admire their neolithic lifestyles and the curious pidgin with which they pour out their hearts.” So, Drew decided, he was a snob after all, though proud of his politics.

I give thanks. I wonder if their sensors pick that up. I wonder if the monitor registers an unfortunate rise in temperature. I extend these fingers. In this white room it is difficult not to think of bodies.

Early one Saturday morning, Alan “Chester” McChester stood on the marbled concourse of London’s Victoria Station reading the newly expanded Vim section of The Daily Continent. Overhead

In brazil we knocked the doors of poor people. They answered in threadbare football jerseys, in stained mesh shorts, in Havaianas thin as reeds. We called them humble. We called them receptive.