The Only Thing You've Got

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There was this guy on the television one time, he’d written a book and had gotten used to seeing his picture in the papers. Donna and I had the color set in the bedroom then, and this guy had on a suit that looked borrowed. He held a pipe in his hand and pressed into the bowl with his thumb. He didn’t smoke, which was probably not allowed on the set, but he looked like he wanted to.

Shrimping; St. Francis, Hiding

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Summer Comes to the Three Villages

Poetry Feature: Larry Kramer

Featuring the poems:

  • Of A Sudden
  • Big Madge
  • Of Our Age

How Nancy Jackson Married Kate Wilson

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Thomas Furlong was a grizzled and sour bachelor of fifty who lived solitary and alone in a log house which stood remote and lonely in the middle of a great cornfield at the base of the rising spurs of the mountains. At two o’clock on a certain morning he came in out of a drizzling rain, lit his tallow dip, pulled down the cheap oiled shade of the single window, punched up his fire, took off his steaming coat, hung it before the fire to dry, sat down, spread his damp hands in front of the blaze, and said to himself–

“It’s a puzzle. I wonder what ever did become of her. Seven hours. Maybe she ain’t as much of a fool as people think.” He sat silently considering the puzzle for some moments, then added, with energy, “Damn her! Damn her whole tribe!”

Poetry Feature: Roger Weingarten

Featuring the poems:

  • Florida
  • The Noonday Witch

from The Hermit Journals

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I do not advertise as a taxidermist, but each year I take a little work, mostly local. Occasionally, a downstater will get lucky and shoot a trophy white-tail on the opener, and for the right price I will mount the buck’s head, usually a ten-pointer or better. My reputation has spread these past few years, so I can choose and charge what I want.

Poetry Feature: Carol Frost

Featuring the poems:

  • All Summer Long
  • All I Cannot

An Interview with Charles Wright

The text of this interview is currently not available online.


The Kid from Red Bank

The full text of this essay is currently not available online.
By the time he died in April of 1984, Count Basie had led a big jazz band for almost fifty years. A dermined man with a shy, evasive smile, he epitomized swing, and every time he played he seemed to reiterate the importance of the blues.