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God narratives don’t tend to begin in hotel conference halls. Rarer still is it to find one starting with a couple of patched up sound technicians readying a hall for a TEDx talk on business processing. This one does. In March 2012, I was more concerned with how realistic it was to believe I could fund my master’s degree through selling bonsai trees than with existential questions about God and fatherhood. I didn’t expect to leave that job with a collapsing barracks of beliefs about what it means to be a father, son, or devotee. I took for granted that these relationships simply exist, never delving too far into what happens when one of the parties within these relationships doesn’t consider the relationship valid. I suppose such thoughts had been safely shut away in the cave of my personal mental garage, requiring a jolt to help pull the shutters up. That jolt came from a man trying to find the words to obliterate the distance between himself and his God. More… “Talking to Gods and Fathers”

Imran Khan received his degree from SOAS and teaches creative writing around South West England. His work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in ucity Review, The Lake, Puritan, Across the Margin, and elsewhere. Khan is a previous winner of the Thomas Hardy Award. He can be found at: https://www.facebook.com/ImranBoeKhan/

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One of the most beautiful buildings I’ve ever had the luck of dining in is a Nando’s restaurant in London. Nestled in between London and Southwark Bridges, it has views of the Thames River and St. Paul’s Cathedral. There are brick walls and arches, and incredible windows. It is like the Oyster Bar at Grand Central only above ground. It is a space dreamed up to be photographed, the type of building where people pay thousands to get married. And in one of the vaulted booths overlooking the Thames, I sat with a group of friends late one Friday night. We were the masters of the universe with a bill under 40 quid. More… “A Dash of Peri-Peri”

Grace Linden is a PhD candidate in art history. Her thesis looks at  New York City’s downtown art scene after 9/11. Grace’s writing has appeared in Catapult, Lenny Letter, andC. Magazine, among others. She currently lives in London.

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When an anonymous tea drinker named comfortablynumb decided to buy a new electric kettle, he asked Chow Magazine’s community forum for help. He’d owned a Chantal kettle. He’d owned a Wolfgang Puck. Both had broken, with one rusting and the other chipping enough to send bits of lining into his tea cup, a process which mystified and irritated him. “I want a stainless kettle,” he told the forum, “and prefer it to not be made overseas.”

For the last eight months, comfortablynumb had been boiling water in a small German saucepan. 150 years after first harnessing electricity, was this what civilization had come to? Boiling water in a pan? For those of us fortunate enough to have enjoyed electric kettles, this anonymous poster’s process sounded tragic — a pitiful inconvenience on par with Homo erectus cracking open seed pods with stones in order to eat. Never mind that boiling water in pans is exactly what human beings had done for ages and that such simple measures had somehow, with the advent of convection ovens, crock pots, and the microwave, come to look primitive rather than timeless. What next, boiling water over a campfire? More… “Please Tea Me”

Aaron Gilbreath is the author of the personal essay collection Everything We Don’t Know, and the ebook This Is: Essays on Jazz. An editor at Longreads, his essays and articles have appeared in Harper’s, The New York Times, Paris Review, Kenyon Review, Lucky Peach, Brick, and Saveur. He’s working on a book tentatively titled Tanoshii: Travels in Japan. @AaronGilbreath

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It is not difficult to imagine Sherlock Holmes, that great eschewer of the supernatural, firing his clay pipe into the fireplace at 221B were he made aware of the cottage literary movement birthed by his adventures. People tend to forget that the detective and his dogged, Boswellian biographer Doctor Watson, investigated through the first quarter of the 20th century, existing as surely in the age of Babe Ruth as they had in the Victorian era of Wilkie Collins. There were, of course, hundreds of Holmes knock-offs and pastiches throughout the detective’s run, as there are now, but what some writers, at least, had the good sense to realize was that simply recasting the model of the genius deducer and his very human foil/partner was not going to achieve any more than serve up some Sherlock-lite. A new wrinkle was needed. Enter, then, the ghosts, and the duos who investigate them.

In the summer of 1914, when the wife and husband duo of Alice and Claude Askew published the eight stories that comprise the collected adventures of Aylmer Vance, “ghost-seer” — there’s something for a business card for you — supernatural fiction was going through a crucial change. The ghost story, long dominant in England, from where the Askews hailed, and which made up a goodly chunk of the best literature yet written in the States, had started to morph into the weird tale, the stuff that would dominate the pulps in the 1930s and 1940s, giving rise to those limited edition book runs at places like Arkham House, which recast horror writing much as Hawthorne, Poe, and M.R. James once had. Humans, now, were often the agencies of the macabre, or else elemental forces from the beyond divorced of human form, but borne of human crisis and strain. The dead girl in the glowing white dress, less so.
More… “The Ghost Shift”

Colin Fleming’s fiction appears in Harper’s, Commentary, Virginia Quarterly Review, AGNI, and Boulevard, with other work running in The Atlantic, Salon, Rolling Stone, The New York Times, and JazzTimes. He is a regular guest on NPR’s Weekend Edition and Downtown with Rich Kimball, in addition to various radio programs and podcasts. His last book was The Anglerfish Comedy Troupe: Stories from the Abyss, and he has two books forthcoming in 2018: Buried on the Beaches: Cape Stories for Hooked Hearts and Driftwood Souls, and a volume examining the 1951 movie Scrooge as a horror film for the ages. Find him on the web at colinfleminglit.com.

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I’ve just returned from Oxford, England, where everything is twice as expensive as it is here, where the weather is crappy and most of the food tastes like boiled cardboard. That said, I still want to take a room in one of those lopsided little houses built in the 12th century and stay for the rest of my life. It’s something I’ve felt fleetingly during previous visits to Europe, but, this time, the feeling was more pronounced. At Oxford, I had the sense of being truly in Western Civilization, with the added poignancy that this might be a last and dying outpost.

 

As everyone knows, Western civilization has its faults — which I will return to discuss later — but it’s hard to think ill of it when you stride through the cobbled streets of Oxford. There you… More…