Reflections: 1939 Was a Watershed Year for Films
These are my parents, Robert Wilson Gregory and Patricia Margaret Keefe Gregory. They lived then in Taft, where I was born. But I remember that painting of the Monterey cypress…
These are my parents, Robert Wilson Gregory and Patricia Margaret Keefe Gregory. They lived then in Taft, where I was born. But I remember that painting of the Monterey cypress…
Photo by Efe Kekikciler There are mornings when I wake and notice the light before I move—steady, ordinary light, unchanged, but for the way I see it. I am…
Previously published in EPIC Literary Magazine.
Photo by Coffee with Joshua By December, the city had folded itself into its winter shape—narrower streets of light, colder breath rising from the river, and the faint metallic…
Photo by Piotr Szajewski As the sun begins to set, on the highest tips of leafless twigs are perched at least fifty sparrows, all facing toward the setting sun…
Photo by Jonathan Borba There are no trivial gestures. Each day is summoned not by grand events, but by the smallest rituals: the pulling of curtains, the clink of…
My longstanding love-hate relationship with tribute bands and nostalgia acts is certainly no secret to loyal readers and friends alike. But there’s a new, somewhat unlikely thing that evokes strong…
The entire audience rises to applaud as the cast members take their final bow of the night. Behind me, I hear two girls quietly weeping with amazement, as I feel…
Photo by Daniel Adesina To hold the day before me like a rare treasure, the hours smooth pearls strung by hand on a thick thread of longing. To recognize…
Photo by Tim Foster The Balcony Gardener noticed the frost before she felt the chill. A silvery film on the railing, the kind that makes you pause before disturbing…