creative nonfiction by Mashalla Mukadam I don’t mean to go to bed at 8:30 in the evening. I lay down in my queen-sized bed with my one-year-old son, in hopes he will fall asleep quickly, so that I can come back into the living room with you. Sometimes, I find myself falling asleep with him, waking up in the morning barely remembering getting in to bed. Sleep is a powerful thing and shown very valuable for raising a child. When I tell you I’ll come back,…Continue Reading “Sleeping At Night”

by Carla Dominguez During my monthly bookshelf dusting, I found a book that I didn’t remember buying. It was a biography of J.M. Barrie, something I probably picked up years ago and promised to read later. I pulled it out to read the back cover thinking, “Who is this?” and was surprised to be reminded that Barrie is the creator of Peter Pan or The Boy Who Couldn’t Grow Up. I remember being effectively freaked out by the original Peter Pan story as a child, and being much…Continue Reading “Notes on Peter Pan and J.M. Barrie”

by Maya Chesley photography by John Dijulio A block from where I live, a wonderful, cluttered building sprouts up from the ground. Ivy beards over its walls, hugging it like an old and near-forgotten lover. We crawl up this ivy, Elise and I, up the rickety black of a ladder that will one day hide behind the green of platonic leaves. We scurry over the ledge onto a slanted white rooftop pulsing with breaths of yellow light that slip through see-through windows. At the top…Continue Reading “Richmond Wanderings: Rooftopping on Tuesdays”

by Lyndon German It was my mistake, thinking genius was associated with trade or talent. That night I stumbled upon a strange house with a red light, I assumed a villain dwelled here. When in fact, after sitting on a couch of some unknown origin, I learned the light was red only because they were out of blue light bulbs, and later, after my expectations went limp, how disappointed I would be if the sky wasn’t blue. All at once I had walked into some…Continue Reading “Moon River (It was my mistake.)”

by Elly Call He carried the radio because it might have been his infant. Its cries provided his unusual building materials. Beyond the collonades of guitar twang he set in front of himself, around himself, behind himself, Was the glass-trash gravel. Mid-grey alley-way. Some sassy traffic. None of this mattered to the man who took the blues and constructed– (Ionic musical sequence, the symmetrical harmony of temple relations) No his head was never covered. (The heart of the house was the courtyard.) Blueprints in his…Continue Reading “The Richmond Transients: The Architect of the Side Walk Airspace”

 by Christopher Sloce. Apologies to Lou Reed, who is forever scowling at anyone eulogizing him. Lyrics aren’t poetry. They never have been. Maybe poetic. Never poetry. Your English teacher, who sold you on this idea that rock music is poetry, just sold you part of the greatest myth of the 21st century. Lou Reed knew what rock music was. He knew it was simply rock and roll and it didn’t need anything else. To quote the man himself, “If God showed up tomorrow and said,…Continue Reading “Lou Reed’s Rock and Roll”