the rivers of it, abridged

New York City skyline at night


Fall 2013 / Spring 2014



Inaugural Poetry, Clinton and Benghazi
by Robert Klein Engler


Painting by
Robert Klein Engler

Inauguration Day. For some it was a cold, but glorious day. For others it was a day of work and deadlines. For others still it was a day in which they felt another part of their beloved country had slipped away. It was a day that called for poetry.  Read Essay







Strategy at Red Star Belgrade
An extract from Facing the Music
by Patrick Henry

Joseph Cotten as writer Holly Martins (left) and Orson Welles (right) as Harry Lime in The Third Man (1949)
Joseph Cotten as writer Holly Martins (left)
and Orson Welles (right) as Harry Lime
in The Third Man (1949).

I had left Vlad in Bucharest, entirely innocent, it seemed, for a spectacular vampire, or an unlicensed actor impersonating one. Oswald also out of the picture, of any kind of intrigue, it seemed. Olivia, the Pink Lady, had things to cover up, beyond provocative scenes: passing orders to me; the way most flamboyant females seemed to do. A young woman now sat in the compartment I was booked into. She nodded and spoke in Slav of some kind. Then tried German. Realised this no better, and ended up in English. A few pleasantries in a soft tongue. A man in the corner looked on. A young man entered as the train pulled out. He spoke to the compartment. In Serb, maybe. Then focussed on speaking to the woman. She glanced at me, for help. "This is Vasovec. He can find me a place to stay in Belgrade. But we are already fixed up are we not?" she said, in English. Her name, Eveline: back from Russia.  Read Essay








Renamed and Deleted
by Natasha Lvovich

Renamed and Deleted

I needed to be alone in Moscow, to have at least one day for myself, for my walking tour of Natasha personal sights. I did not want anybody next to me, from my past or from my present; I did not want to speak in any language; I needed silence. Sleep deprivation made me feel numb and cotton-thick inside, yet tense and bouncy on the outside, as if my skin was pulled tight, like a string of a guitar. I still couldn't believe I was in Moscow.  Read Essay