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Byron was born and raised in the City, but he was very unhappy there. He went to work every day in an office with bright lights and soft furniture, and though the people he worked with always seemed to have fun, he was usually unhappy. “I feel out of place,” he’d say, and he’d dream of the forests, rivers, and skies he had seen on camping trips to the mountains.
By Bill HerronOctober 1978Hitched to the University of the South at Sewannee, Tennessee. School was out and there were few people around — my last visit I stayed at Beta Phi fraternity — so checked it out again — no one around, but back door conveniently open, so I made myself at home.
By Nyle FrankJuly 1978Parapsychology, like every other science, is in the business of doing research. At least as important as research, if not moreso, is publishing. . . . These folks are serious. It’s the right thing to do, of course. If they don’t take themselves seriously, who will? . . . What follows is a parody of the type of article typically found in one of the parapsychological journals, or in any scientific journal.
By David SearlsFebruary 1978I, Arthur Milstein, have had a shitty life. I have found difficulty finding gainful employment. I most recently had a position carving names on gravestones, but I was dismissed owing to poor spelling. I usually spell well but not under intense pressure.
By Karl GrossmanDecember 1977“Anything,” I say. “Anything but that.” They were trying to make me eat chicken. As an intelligence agent I had been through the wringer many times — torture, torture, forever torture. But I hate chicken. I detest chicken. I would tell them anything if I had to eat chicken.
By Karl GrossmanNovember 1977He was no one you’d pause to stare at; it was what he said that belied his craziness. Ask him any question; he would answer it as perversely as possible, every time. “Paul, what’s it like outside?” “It’s a perfect day for a rape.” “Paul, what’s for dinner?” “Children’s genitalia, in red clam sauce.”
By Richard GessOctober 1977The people of Menitz could never remember a time when there had not been a vampire. So of course it was hard for them to remember the details of the good old days.
By Randee Russell AscherJuly 1977The life insurance salesman will be here soon. He will put it to him bluntly: he has responsibilities. In his case, there are photographs of the funeral. He is a handsome corpse. He feels flattered.
By Sy SafranskyMay 1977Fletcher E. Driscoll felt the day getting warmer. He was in the back seat of a Land Rover, blindfolded. It must be noon, he thought, bouncing along what seemed to be a crude jungle road.
By Karl GrossmanMay 1977“But man must live in his environment. So our solution is simple. We alter the digestive system, replace it with a treatment plant. Then anybody can eat cars, cement, you name it.”
By Karl GrossmanApril 1977Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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