Editor of the Month
 Richard Whittaker
At one point in our conversation, Johnson quoted Vladimir Nabokov on 'the passion of the scientist and the precision of the artist.' He paused. Had I been listening? Not the passion. He'd said, 'the precision of the artist.' [more]
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 Teresa Corragio: 'This was my last night in this otherworldly place. If I worked through vespers, and got up for pre-dawn vigils but skipped lauds, I might be done just in time to leave. Reluctantly, I brought four heads of garlic and the mallet out to the trailer porch. At least I could see the sunset over the ocean through the bars, while I smashed and peeled on the wooden floor. Sighing, I settled in for the long haul, when a rattling engine ripped through the quiet. But it wasn't Rumpelstiltskin shown up to save me. It was Igor.
 Chuck St. John: I looked to the left through the open door into the bedroom. I saw a bed, the shape of a woman sleeping, illuminated by the moonlight coming from the big window over the bed. Words came, 'Yes, that's my wife.' And the events of the last six years came like remembering a story, as if lived by me in a dream. How we met. How we had make love in the backseat of a car in the Florida woods. How she had gotten pregnant and we married as a result. And all the events that led to this moment of my standing there, naked in the hallway. 'How did I get here?' This time I almost said it out loud. 'Who lived these years?'
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