April 2014
In this issue
Contents
What Debussy Wrote for the Guitar
[soundcloud url=”https://api.soundcloud.com/tracks/43782479″ params=”auto_play=true&hide_related=false&visual=true” width=”100%” height=”450″ iframe=”true” /] Peyton recognized it the first time he heard Tito Salinas play the pieces. When the performance ended, he…
Unfinished Swansong
Undraped feminine figure; that is, even if infatuated with brevity, David still insists on putting it in three other words: the female nude. Yes, the…
Feigning Mirth
There is something about these big towns, they allure you, promise you something beautiful and make you chase these hopes and dreams feverishly and then,…
Last Working Day
Murthy was a second division clerk in one of the government offices; knowing which one makes no difference because most of them are alike in…
The Prosecutor’s Daughter
Salim Bouhadi, who used to be the police chief in Tiznit until he left in disgrace, hurried up the dirt road away from the bluffs….
Terminal
I have no use for the daily news, wasting away the protracted minutes, waiting for the triumph of diagnosis.
Vincent Van Gogh’s Shoes
No pretensions here. No ornamentation of high art. No gods or kings, No nymphs or castles.
All Through Mind
You can start at the memories Of putting on your dad’s shirts Pretending to be a detective
More Shores
Is that Samisen, the swish of geisha? Those strings, that fragrance… A tattoo in silk’s fluidity, The clear mystery of sheer notes strummed