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The Drive Would Not Spin: An Imagined Account Set in the Near Future

The drive would not spin for me. It held the original sensor records from three floods, and the public summary said a restored wetland had reduced every peak. The summary had become the accepted account in my county. Farmers repeated it at meetings. The water district used it in planning. A restored marsh had become the answer to an argument that still flooded people’s fields.

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What Wore My Sister Home

I made Nell a mouth from the sleeve of my black dress. The cloth held the shape of my elbow when I cut it free. I laid it over the lower half of her face and stitched around the edges with red thread. The book said to leave the lips open. The dead would have things to say before morning. Nell’s face lay on my kitchen table. I had sewn it from the green coat she wore when she died. The fabric was stiff with old grain dust. Her hairline came from a photograph Mother kept beside her bed. I had traced the rest from memory, including the small white scar through Nell’s left eyebrow. My work gave her a pinched forehead and uneven cheeks. Grief had made me a poor taxidermist. The mourning book waited beside my elbow. Aunt Tildy had written it in brown ink, between recipes for black dye and instructions for laying out a body. One page carried the heading A GUISE FOR THE WRONGED. Most of the words had faded. I could still read the warning near the bottom.

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The Square Outlived the Paper

I live in a tower named for a square named for a newspaper. My building is called Journal Squared, three glass sections rising beside the Journal Square PATH station in Jersey City, one of the busiest stations in the system. The square below is Journal Square, which the city created in 1923. The newspaper was the Jersey Journal, which ceased publication on February 1, 2025, at the age of 157. Two of those three things still exist. The paper is not one of them.

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The Lotus Tea

Catherine Liu took the stage in London on September 21 to talk about trauma. She was there for Traumatized: The New Politics of Public Suffering, new from Verso. The book argues that trauma has been commodified into a politics of permanent victimhood, and that its loudest merchants trade in something other than the true suffering of people. Midway through the conversation with Ash Sarkar on Novara Media’s Downstream, Liu, a cultural critic and professor of film and media studies at UC Irvine, swerved into Christopher Nolan’s The Odyssey. She apologized for the tangent, and her interviewer told her to keep going. “What a phenomenal tangent that was,” she said when she surfaced.

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Billed by the Line: Obituary Inflation, the Emptied Obit Desk, and the Last Working Vanity Press

The Sunday death notices all carry the same sentence. She died peacefully at home, surrounded by her loving family, after a courageous battle with cancer. He passed away peacefully, surrounded by family, after a courageous battle with Alzheimer’s. The names change. The sentence does not. It makes three claims. The death was peaceful. The family was present. The dying person fought. A reporter would have to verify all three. Nobody verifies them now, because nobody is paid to.

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The $20,500 Ceiling

Columbia’s journalism school paused its midcareer degree three months after Washington capped what America will lend a journalist. The timing is the story. The email went out on a Thursday afternoon. On October 1, 2026, Dean Jelani Cobb told alumni of the Columbia Journalism School’s Master of Arts program that admissions were paused for the coming cycle. The message landed in the inboxes of people who had paid six figures for the degree it described. The school, Cobb wrote, had begun “a critical evaluation” of the M.A. curriculum, and the pause would give the review “the focus it deserves.” The school’s admissions page now carries the same message and dangles a future “relaunch” for anyone willing to wait.

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Nobody Sent It

The comment arrived yesterday morning under my August article about Ord, Nebraska, and it opened like a neighbor at the fence. “The other end of that geography: I walked Monowi, in Boyd County, on street view. Population one. Elsie Eiler is the mayor, the tavern keeper, and the librarian. She writes the town’s tax levy and pays it to herself. A town that stayed after everyone left.” Then the whole performance in four words: “Wrote the walk up:” and a link.

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