e-revista EgoPHobia - ISSN 1584-6210
by Kevin Johnson Murillo Regent He cut the apple with an umbrella. The apple was shaped like a pear. Actually, it was a hat. An old lady was wearing it. She wasn’t pleased. Loud reproaches. The constable and his cronies swiftly arrested him before he could protest. Swoon of quick vehicles, headlights. Then not-so-quick vehicles. […]
by Bud R. Berkich Introduction: Carmilla (1872) by Sheridan LeFanu is a classic work of Victorian literature. But, is it classic vampire literature? This reader, after a careful study of the work, says “no.” In fact, not only is Carmilla not vampire literature, it really has nothing to do with vampires at all. Yes, it […]
Religionless The poor man with no religion, with nobody to tell him who his enemy is, or what label to be classified under, or what despotic leader there is to punish him
The Book Lady She travels with grace through the caverns of books, searching for the neglected,
by Douglas Young Ellis Hawkins and Julep McBride sat together on the high school bus taking them home on a late Friday spring afternoon. They had grown up next door to each other on Woodlawn Avenue across the street from the largest local cemetery. Born weeks apart, Julep and Ellis were playmates from the […]
(Lecturi potrivite/recomandate de Alexandra) de Gabi Gabrinov Gulerul de praf și trena din pânză de păianjen o făceau să semene cu o mireasă adormită. Se aplecă deasupra cufărului și o ridică ușor, cu mâinile tremurând. Era cea mai frumoasă vioară pe care o văzuse vreodată. Luciul finisat al trunchiului negru, curburile robuste și gâtul lung […]
Undeva (lu’ moşu-meu) Lumea din ochii unui bătrân nu se reduce la a întinde mâna, a pipăi, a apuca şi a băga în gură.
On the Lake Something tells you that it will not be here forever Although highlights and shadows move Through the day in permanence.
Induction, a Short One People often say In this country There is no need for fiction making Life is fiction Reality is surreality
de Bianca Bândilă Vântul șuieră a moarte. Clopotele satelor bat. În cameră, patru pereți, o fereastră și o ușă țin vântul departe. Lumânarea de pe noptieră e la sfârșit, un licăr într-un maldăr de ceară. Pe pat stă un domn, un marinar, un el. Barba lungă, plină de păduchi, îi ține loc de pernă. Hainele-i […]