David Shipko is a Los Angeles based scholar and writer.


Standing before my house, beneath the overhang protecting me from fall’s first rain, while drinking whiskey from a flask and smoking a cigarette and listening to Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah” on repeat and reflecting on two loves, the one I should have never had and the one I never will—the former having been a good faith though ill-fated attempt to forget the latter—my left ear suddenly rang with the death of a frequency I shall never again hear. After the ringing faded, the stray black cat that lives around my house, whom I have for some time fed and shown affection, came from out of the rain, mewing, rubbing herself against my leg. I invited her into the house where it was dry, and for a while she was glad for it, even allowing me to close the front door behind her for a few moments. But she would not stay. 

JFK Jr Is Alive