Rick Morton

Crumbs at the Slophouse

There was a man at the ice creamery the other day and I cannot stop thinking about him. He looked about 50. No family in tow, indeed no other travelling friends or acquaintances in sight. From his person there were wires, running out of his ears and a battery pack

Blessé this Messé

A Room of One's Own

The Lion Speaks Tonight

Her Name Was Toula

And So, To Paris

Seven Books on a Billboard Outside Paris

A Short Violent Evening

The kinds of grievous injuries for which I might be covered under my travel insurance policy are oddly combinatorial, I noted with some grim amusement from the couch while I read. A lousy $25,000 for the loss of both feet or the loss of both hands. Similarly, the loss

Plato's Conclave

The Funny Thing About a Wall