...Susan B. A. Somers-Willett © 2013 Susan B. A. Somers-Willett 2013 Susan B. A. Somers-Willett Uptown Zoetrope When viewed in a certain light, some bodies astonish me. Just as you, fellow stranger, and I might marvel at the ruin of these operator-less booths...

..., the traditional line between Latin downtown and Anglophone uptown. A series of long boulevards purports to tell the story of New Orleans. From 2011 to 2013, I commuted by bike up Baronne Street from my apartment in downtown’s Seventh Ward to Tulane University. On the trip, I crossed over Martin Luther...

... too pretty. Got long nails and a sweep of collarbone that gets me off task. I’m just fine with her uptown at her tidy little woman’s place with fresh sheets and curtains and all. My house is about as bad as my yard. I keep buckets of empty spray paint cans in the kitchen. Paint done...

... anilla flower on its packaging. An old neighbor used to have a drawer filled with them. When I realized I lost mine, I went to every pharmacy within a twenty-mile radius. I drove uptown, then downtown, then midtown just to be sure, and found that not only had the company rebranded, but was now making...

... dissertation on?” she asked as we headed back uptown. That semester, I was supposed to be writing my dissertation proposal. My field was postwar American film and I wanted to write about the concept of the hero, but I was having a tough time narrowing my topic, a point...

... with Margaret after she graduated and moved to the city a year ago: weekends here on Hester Street and weeknights at Margaret’s place uptown. Even when they didn’t have sex for weeks at a time, even when they went to bed and woke up at radically different hours, Margaret held off the pointlessness...

... before yesterday, when the silence in her apartment uptown began to beat on her ears and make her head hurt. She had left that afternoon without her tattered hospital cafeteria staff ID, without her white smock, without so much as ten dollars, to go to hear the feet pound and the cars hum down...

.... Daisy Buchanan’s rich husband, Tom, buys it for his low- class mistress, Myrtle Wilson, when, en route to an apartment he keeps for her uptown, she sees a man selling puppies on the street: “I want to get one of those dogs,” she said earnestly. “I want to get one for the apartment. They’re...