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What magnificent creatures they are, these friends who populate the complex ecology of the life I share with Julia. Refreshed by their presence, confirmed by their affection, we rejoice in the sight and the sound of them.

By Robert Ebisch January 1990


“I’m going to do you to death,” he said. “How about that. Not because you’re pretty, either, because you’re not, but because you can’t stop me. How about that.”

By Linda Daniels January 1990

Serpent’s Tooth

We lived in a walk-up apartment house. The three of us would anticipate his footsteps, listening for them up the tiled stairs and across the tiled floor. He had a variety of walks: a confident, sober stride; a penitential limp; a self-assured, rocking swagger.

By Edward Wahl October 1989
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Radical Steps

Both of them hit me so frequently that I still flinch at sudden movements. I learned in my bones that alcoholics don’t have relationships; they take hostages.

By Lily Collett August 1989

A Little Irish Water Music

Occasionally, when Dad belted up his trousers with twine, she turned as brittle as snapbread, but in those early years, she was usually willing to dismiss our days as the pruning from which decorous bloom must one day erupt.

By Katherine Vaz March 1988
Readers Write


An old porch swing, a birthday gift, an even half-dozen

By Our Readers May 1987
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Saying Goodbye To Warren

He was the only friend I had who would dive on the hood of a car. What does that mean? Look around you and you will see it meant a lot.

By John Rosenthal October 1982
The Sun Interview

We Are People

Interviews With Inmates Of Hillsborough Prison

The day I sat in the courtroom, there were three or four white men with the same charges, but they let them pay out, maybe seven or eight hundred dollars. I was black. The man didn’t say nothing about no fees or charges. They gave me the maximum sentence. My skin color gave me away. I can base it down to that. I didn’t have the money, so I got to pull the time. It’s just as simple as that.

By Wolfgang Bischoff , Mariam Nassadien & Vernon Rose September 1980
Essays, Memoirs, & True Stories

Chapel Hill

An Elegy For Jesse Stroud

There is no precipitating event for this elegy. No anniversary. No birthday. No cause whatever, other than personal need. Jesse Stroud lived, struggled, and died. I do not purposefully vilify nor vindicate. Neither do I celebrate. Certainly not regret.

By Owen H. Page April 1980