art deco-rum [a&c]
By Olivia Cohen | November 18There are certain rules that you have to follow when you walk through an art museum.
There are certain rules that you have to follow when you walk through an art museum.
In homage to the vignette-laden construction of a film I do not feel particularly inspired to pay homage to, what follows is a hodgepodge collection of reflections on watching Wes Anderson’s mass market art house movies, and why his latest stands unfortunately apart from the rest.
“Cancer!” My sister shrieked, distraught as she barreled into my room at seven in the morning. “Of course he’s a Cancer!”
There comes a time each fall semester when you stroll among the fallen leaves and the bitter wind of Providence numbs your fingertips to a shade of red that Rudolph would envy. To put up our best defense against another winter on the hill, it’s time to bust out the winter clothes! You may not know ...
Our identity is where our best stories come from. Stories from the Asian community at Brown University covering relationships, self-acceptance, career paths, food, politics, and more, read in three minutes or less. redenvelopestories.net ...
Lexington, Kentucky, circa 2012, circa 8:00 p.m., circa two hours before bedtime, circa bedtime is for cowards. This is the first birthday party I’ve been invited to since moving here from Texas, and I’m eager to make a good impression so that more invitations come my way. Unfortunately, I’m scrawny ...
I watch as the sun tucks itself into a small pocket of pines and steam off to the west, until it looks like a little light bulb held in a thin hand. I sit for thirty minutes or so until it has completely disappeared. It’s a new moon tonight and there’s cloud cover coming in. Soon, the night is so ...
I’ve never been a neat person. Living at home, my mother would nag me incessantly about the pile of dirty clothes ruling over my chair, the trail of notebooks I would leave around the house, the army of mugs assembled on my desk, half-filled with forgotten tea. We’d constantly feud about the disorder ...
The day after Ray Bradbury’s death at age 91, writer Neil Gaiman remembered him in an article for The Guardian: “A young man from Waukegan, Illinois, who went to Los Angeles, educated himself in libraries, and wrote until he got good, then transcended genre and became a genre of one; often emulated, ...
Okay, so maybe it’s that time of year.
I fell in love with running over the past year around Providence. It became a source of stress-relief, accomplishment, and arguably most important, endorphins. I’m not saying this happened overnight. There were many long runs at the beginning that were painful, as I acclimated to the hilly geography ...
Our identity is where our best stories come from. Stories from the Asian community at Brown University covering relationships, self-acceptance, career paths, food, politics, and more, read in three minutes or less. redenvelopestories.net ...
When you hear the word “Africa,” what is the first image that pops into your mind? Many think of mighty animals in the wild, soaring through the safari, roaring in the pride lands, pounding on the earth with tons of skin and bones. Others often picture rheumy-eyed children, whose little bony bodies ...
It began with a flocking to the hideous. The days were getting long, and the sun was getting strong. We were donning jean shorts and flowing skirts, sipping Del’s lemonade while stretching our legs on tie-dyed picnic blankets spread over the grass, when “Large Concretized Monument to the Twentieth ...
When I was a kid, I tried everything: ballet, taekwondo, baseball, soccer, painting (catastrophically). When I was 10, I told my mom that I wanted to “find my thing” while strapped into the back seat of her SUV on the way home from school. It bothered me more than anything that I wasn’t “the ...
We were standing in a circle next to the concrete bleachers listening to M’s Marvel theories. By the time I saw the alarm in his eyes, it was already too late. My glasses flew off my face and a mix of surprised gasps and nervous laughs erupted around me. Someone yelled sorry! from across the court. ...
The stairs creak as she slowly descends. It’s pitch black, with the exception of the slight glow from the wax candle she grips. She feels a sudden gust of wind in the windowless cellar. Her candle blows out. Silence.