by Elaine Margolis

The mime, dressed in black, a shawl across one shoulder, a dark lens on one eye, moved his head from side to side as he adjusted his cuffs, holding the crowd, holding me, keeping us inside the space of, not letting us escape from, his unseeing single-eyed stare.

A tape player filled the Paris square with a ricky-tick tune, the mime’s feet kicking in time, a spasmodic dance; his gloves, bright blue, twitching as though attached to invisible strings. Back straight, staring eye, he posed and postured, twitched and turned, his mouth a pink pout, his gray hair rolling like fog. (read on…)

by N.D. Wheeler
I fancied myself an artist; he wanted to be a writer.

I took photographs, later picking them up from the developer with anticipation and surprise, always surprise, as though someone else had taken the pictures and I didn’t know what to expect. (read on…)