I pen this ensconced in a creaking fifty-year-old chair in a pub in Dornoch, Scotland. My host is Keith, and I've a half pint of McEwan's 80 Shilling in front of me. I've already been to the bog twice to drain off the previous pint. But that sidesteps the question: Why on God's earth am I in Scotland waiting out an opaque fog in September when I could be watching the sunburned English frolic in Majorca or be on a whale cruise out of Vancouver?

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The TPR Stream
The Constant Tourist, 2: The Lottery By Siegfried Mortkowitz

My alarm went off at five a.m., about an hour after I’d fallen asleep. The night before I’d finally managed to seduce Sabine, a German midwifery student and the best-looking of the two female tourists on the island of Tilos (the other was her friend Klara), but it had required a lot of retsina and most of the night. I was still a little drunk as I dressed and descended the raw cement stairs of the Hotel Livadia. I didn’t have to worry about waking anyone; I was the hotel’s only guest. The year was 1990, the month was May, off-season on an island which saw few visitors then even in high season.
Waterboard Your Wives By Colin Kalmbacher

One of the ways human beings seek to redeem themselves for past mistakes is by admitting those mistakes and attempting to correct or, if one is more spiritually inclined, atone. This is a minority view not much practiced in the United States. No wonder, then, that Condoleezza Rice, a profoundly dishonest and unethical artifact of the second Bush administration, is considered the frontrunner to replace scandal-plagued Roger Goodell as commissioner of the NFL.
Here We Go Again By Philip O’Neil

I can’t talk as my chin is ground into the parquet floor: feel stubble scratch into itself, trying to move my head under leather, sweat smelling hand. ‘Oh shit,’ I’m thinking. ‘Now the floor’s all bloody and it’ll take an age to clean if it’s not dealt with immediately.’ Out from the roof of my eye I see the green uniforms of the paramedics who stand by watching me prostate on the ground.
Inside the Artists’ Retreat: Virginia Center for the Creative Arts By Valerie Duff

This August, I spent ten days as a Fellow at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, which allowed me to be what I had forgotten I could be—a full-time creative writer. The Center has been housed both in Albemarle and Amherst County in Virginia. Mary Oliver was writer-in-residence on the Sweet Briar College campus (directly across from the road to the VCCA) when I was a young adult living in Virginia, and the surrounding landscape resonates deeply with the images of her poetry, but I didn’t really make sense of what the VCCA was until much, much later. 
Our Ancestors as Art By The Editors

A look inside some of paleoartist Elisabeth Daynès most incredible...creations?

Bob Dylan Wants to Know Who Threw the Fucking Glass By The Editors

Bob Dylan wants to know one thing: Who threw the fucking glass?
In Which Bob Dylan Discovers America, Flees By Sean Hammer

Inside Dylan's America, then and now. A story of love and evacuation.
College Degree By Rudy Ravindra

Due to family circumstances, my paternal grandfather had to drop out of school and work in the Indian Railways as a stoker. It was a hot, sweaty, and back breaking work to tend the steam engine fire by shoveling coal into the engine’s firebox.
Fasting to Reenvision the Native American Body By Scott Bear Don't Walk

The Apsáalooke people, my tribe, keep being diagnosed with type 2 diabetes. It is an epidemic of the white man’s good life. We’ve settled down into fixed houses, easy food, not hunting the buffalo, not moving across the Great Plains, not living the true life of a like-hearted people. The good times are killing us, along with white bread, white rice, potatoes, beer. My body needs to work. That’s what it means to be human, to ride against a worthy opponent, hunt animals that I honor, and that honor me. I need to live out in the world, moving in it, breathing it in. (I type this from my desk indoors, behind glass and walls.)
At the End of the Day, Resources Matter By Stephanie Wright

Education, averages, and the true meaning of one student having advantage over another. 
Last Thoughts on Scottish Independence By Adam Blanden

With the final count in, the rattled nerves of Britain's great and good are regaining their former, slightly numbed composure. "Our" plucky Union carries on, though with promises of radical devolution and a veritable bonfire of Westminster privileges. This was not unanticipated.
Jim Morrison Predicts the Future By The Editors

There are those sages in life that seem to know the way of past, present, and future. It is those very same sages that we usually end up killing in the most gruesome fashion possible. That or they end up choking on their own vomit. Jim Morrison was a prophet of the latter fate. 
Contemporary Style for Girls and Boys By Daniel Perry

As a reader, a writer or even a former copy editor, I don’t think I can explain why it’s “girl” here and “woman” everywhere else in the article. And having not seen a draft, I’ll never know whether every “girl” but one was replaced by an editor, or if the author slipped just once, or deliberately chose “girl” just once, or perhaps most terrifyingly—to a former copy editor—whether the article was copy edited at all, as, in response to my recent Facebook status lamenting how the wrong “peak” so consistently gets into “sneak peek” articles—headlines!— an old newsie buddy threw back a lament of his own: “Easy. No more copy editors.”
The Palace of Regret By Toni Nealie

When you fail to stop the sexual abuse of a child. 
Glimpses through Windows By Kristin Thiel

The next morning he suggested in a reply email that I read in bed on my phone, “‘Reading’ is NOT a euphemism for having my penis sucked, my dear. Reading naked does increase the likelihood of receiving a paper cut, however appropriately I am holding the book, in an inappropriately exposed area of my body. I must admit, I do live on the edge.”
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