Eric Stephenson is the publisher and editor-in-chief of US Represented. He is also a contributing writer. Mail him at [email protected] if you would like to submit some of your work for possible publication or ask him questions about the site.
Don walked into the living room with a basketball in his hands. His son Greg was playing Assassin’s Creed. “Let’s go shoot some hoops,” Don said. Greg just kept staring at the screen. “Dad, I’m in the middle of something.” “There’s no remote control button to life, son. C’mon, let’s go. Daylight’s burning. You need some exercise.” “I’m fine right where I am.” Don sat down on the sofa, yanked the video out
Olivia Anderson had recently returned to Bridgeport, Illinois after a year of living in Budapest, and she needed a place to live. She was tired of tugging at the end of her parents’ leash and wanted to choose her own path in life, at least for a while, to include paying for her own apartment. Her best friend Emma Chase had been earning her own way since her junior year in high school, and her
A poem is an equation written on the wind, lasting only for as long as the memories that transmit it from one seeker to the next. The poet is an ego-driven chronicler writing to be remembered while claiming that the message is what matters most, despite the fact that the message hasn’t changed since the advent of the printed word, or longer. I can imagine the last of the species
They sat together in a corner booth of the nicest hotel bar in town, just a few blocks from where he worked. He ran his index finger across the top of her hand and said, “I’m definitely game for a nightcap in your room, but I can’t stay too late, Elaine. I have a presentation tomorrow, and most of my paperwork is at home.” “No problem, Chuck,” she said. “We’ll
Last night, the wind in the branches interrupted our dreams. We held each other alone and silent, free from all the other dreamers who kept their own secrets buried in the dark. The midnight creatures prowled beyond our walls, their subtle noises delivering us from thought, and after the atoms struck the void, we let them lull us back to sleep.
So much depends on perception. Perceiving identity as static results in static behavior where little is gained or learned, with minimal emotional reward. “This is who I am,” someone might think, “so this is the way things will always be.” Granted, disorders like schizophrenia and depression control behavior in certain immutable ways, as can things like sex, ethnicity, class status, and age. Still, the “Who I am” affirmation is always
