There is much that can be said about Edgar Allan Poe, but in terms of his literary habits, little that needs to be. Much more famous in death than he was in life, he was nevertheless a literary critic of some renown in his own time. His true love, however, was lurid, ghastly fiction. Poe…
Read More
I got into my bed and I turned out the light, and I started hearing someone whistling. I don’t remember the tune, I just remember whistling. It was clear. I could hear it everywhere. In my mind, and since we lived in a two story apartment, I remember imagining a man walking across above us…
Read More
It’s an old, old story. The shadowed, dusty crossroads sit lonely in the sultry, oppressive summer night, seemingly waiting for the young Black man who now arrives. He holds a guitar in one hand and a mostly empty bottle of whiskey in the other. He does not stumble as he walks, but looks about warily…
Read More