By Peter Kupfer

It was a gold Seiko. It wasn’t a particularly expensive watch, but it was priceless to me because it had belonged to my father. It was a part of him, something he’d worn every day.

By Ruth Marner

They called it Rock Creek, but really, it was a lake. And on a hot summer’s day in 1984, we drove out to it. We only had several days together before I needed to return home to St. Louis, so we wanted to make the most of it.

By Jeffrey Round

Of the handful of books that informed my adolescent understanding of what it meant to be gay, E. M. Forster’s posthumously published Maurice was the most revelatory. The reasons are numerous, but the most important was that it held out hope to a confused young mind—mine—enduring a very dark night of the soul.

By Leith Angel Johnson

Pretty much everything DJ knows about Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein was learned by watching the iconic, flat-headed monster grunting and lurching about in the classic horror movies by Universal Studios. But these types of films, with bandaged cadavers waiting to be brought back to life by bolts of lightning, are more indicative of a Frankenstein-ish genre that is altogether distinct from any imagery presented in Shelley’s novel.