"Reading The Coffee Shop Chronicles of New Orleans, Part 1" copyright 2011 kristin fouquet
Much like converts are often more zealous for their newfound religions, transplants tend to see their adopted cities with fresh eyes. Reading The Coffee Shop Chronicles of New Orleans. Part 1 had this native experiencing a renewed love for her city.The narrator, B. Sammy Singleton, has relocated to New Orleans with much eagerness. He is opinionated, sober, and sensitive while offering his descriptions of the city and her denizens with critical, comical detail. Amongst constant distraction, he attempts to write a local coffee shop guide, while wondering the whereabouts of his close friend, who has a penchant for disappearing.Most of the book had me laughing, a thanks to Lummis’ great wit, or amazed at his local historical, architectural, and pop cultural references. However, the final chapter’s poignancy left me in tears. Home is a relative concept, but he reminds us we are never too far…
Full Of Crow Press is proud to announce that Blink Ink Issue #5 is available! Cover and Photography by Kristin Fouquet, fiction edited by Doug Mathewson, produced by Lynn Alexander for Full Of Crow Press and Distribution. Stories by John Brooke, Julia Davies, Hugh Fox, John Greiner, Shubhan Gupta, Matthew Zanoni Muller, Fawn Neun, John Sheirer, Michael J. Solender, Sweta Srivastava Vikram, Townsend Walker, Joanna M. Weston, Jim Wittenberg, and Angel Zapata.
This is my favorite hangover story. A raise of the glass to the inimitable Dorothy Parker.
You Were Perfectly Fine
The pale young man eased himself carefully into the low chair, and rolled his head to the side, so that the cool chintz comforted his cheek and temple.“Oh, dear,” he said.”Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear. Oh.”The clear-eyed girl, sitting light and erect on the couch, smiled brightly at him.“Not feeling so well today?” she said.“Oh, I’m great,” he said.”Corking, I am. Know what time I got up? Four o’clock this afternoon, sharp. I kept trying to make it, and every time I took my head off the pillow, it would roll under the bed. This isn’t my head I’ve got on now. I think this is something that used to belong to Walt Whitman. Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear.”“Do you think maybe a drink would make you feel better?” she said.“The hair of the mastiff that bit me?” he said.”Oh, no, thank you. Please never speak of anything like…