Alex Shapiro

Alex Shapiro is a former nonfiction editor of Identity Theory.

My Mistress’s Sparrow Is Dead

Greetings from Chicago everyone, it's your friendly roving nonfiction acquisitions editor, Alex A.G. Shapiro. I'm reading My Mistress's Sparrow Is Dead: Great Love Stories, from Chekhov to Munro by Jeffrey Eugenides (Editor), and a business book called Made to Stick: Why Some Ideas Survive and Others Die by Chip Heath, Dan Heath. On deck is […]

Don’t Eat Anything With Bacon

Inmates and their families or loved ones regarding (for the most part) life in, out and around Deerlodge, Montana State Prison. Some quotes are abbreviated. Others are in reference to different prisons in America. But all are genuine. Letters and reports from Prison Talk Online and elsewhere. “i was asking a qustion about my son

Butternut Squash

A little learning is a dangerous thing; Drink deep or taste not the Pierian spring. -Alexander Pope, “Essay on Criticism” Looking at simple things in a cosmic way is the work of a poet. Accordingly, Thaddeus Edelstein made a point of keeping his eyes open. He wouldn’t want to miss the world in a grain

Nome Sane

Uncle Shelby, Sippy Salvatore, Silent Edgar, Ramos the Bull God, Alejandro the Hammer, Peter the Wolf, The Ghost of Thom Jones, names by which my ilk are known or have been known, all. Name by which I go when I go at night from this place in the hills with my hollow prayer book in

Giuseppe the Architect

The spark is a good dog. Giuseppe sucks! It is well trained. It heels. Architects call electricians sparkies, They do what Giuseppe tells them! The wall cannot be broken by a fist. Giuseppe sucks! It is a solid thing. It contains. Architects call bricklayers brickies. They do what Giuseppe tells them! The shower has good

Jiffy Popped Corn and Puppy Don’t Care

Helen Astley and Henry Stein lay cuddled together in bed with the lights off, munching Jiffy Pop, watching an old western flick, For a Few Dollars More. They were no longer each other’s lovers. Five years of hot and cold drama had left the two numb: frostbitten below, scorched in the head. Still, they enjoyed

In the Rut

At six a.m., I learned the sun god had traded his golden chariot for a pale green corduroy chair. It was a lazy kind of light that coated the mountain. A light that implied comfort and “just another day,” rather than grandeur and the chokecherries swallowed the indignity. The fir tree, cold and thirsty, narrowed

Angel’s Left

1 "Doggy, dear," says Kari Moore, "fetch mommy up another ocean." "Make it two," says Deb Trigaboff. "Three," says Marguerite Mauvoisin. "Five," says Tristram le Brun, the wickedest of the wicked wives club. Kari has grounded her stepson Doug—aka Dougie, then Doggy, Mutt and Biatch and variables thereof and beyond as the day grinds on—on

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