998 Slices
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Medium 9780253012098


S. A. An-sky Indiana University Press ePub

THE SYNAGOGUE SEEMED to Eizerman to be brighter, larger, and more dazzling than those in Miloslavka. When he and Uler walked in, evening prayers were already under way. Uler headed off somewhere and disappeared; Eizerman began to look around at the congregation and noticed several men among them wearing short jackets, dickeys, and trimmed side curls. No one paid them any special attention. . . . Turning around, Eizerman suddenly found himself looking right at Sheinburg. . . . He was standing by the east wall,1 next to an old Jew in a yarmulke2 wearing a long satin frock coat, and he was coldly, haughtily staring at Eizerman.

He was embarrassed and dropped his eyes, afraid to give away his terrible secret. But he couldn’t restrain himself from glancing again in Sheinburg’s direction. He was now engaged in conversation with his neighbor. He was talking rather loudly, with a note of indignation in his voice and with vigorous gestures. From the individual words that reached him, Eizerman concluded that Sheinburg was complaining about the head of the synagogue.

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Medium 9781942496656

Chapter 44

Charlotte Jones Solution Tree Press ePub

Conrad’s heart pounded in his chest as he neared Shira’s room. The traitor had been Zinnia. He cursed himself for not having put it all together sooner. After Shira’s pen had been taken, Kaelo must have manipulated Zinnia through Halcyon. But Halcyon was dead; what power over her could Kaelo possibly have? Fury pulsed through him as he thought of what she had told them. Because of her, they knew Shira’s lesalstis.

He forced his breathing to come almost silently as he slowed, and he drew the sword from his belt, a sword he had borrowed since his father’s had been taken in the Evron. Noiselessly, he slipped next to the door. It had been left open a crack; with great caution, trying to keep out of sight, he knelt and glanced in.

Shira was pressed against the wall on the far side of the bedroom, opposite the door. Two Iniskroun imprisoned her in the shadows. Kaelo stood in front of her, and his knife was drawn, pressed against her shoulder. He could see no one else, but that did not mean they were not present. He touched his shoulder gently. He needed no reminder.

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Medium 9780253006837

9: Bashir Binladen

Abdourahman A. Waberi Indiana University Press ePub



SO I GOT TOO-TOO MAD. Let's get real here. You think people walk with their ass on the ground? We hear the rebels almost in Djibouti and us, we stuck here, in mountain. They gonna waste everybody over there. When they gonna give the order to attack Scud positions? They say president he don't give a damn about anything, homeland, fatherland, population. He too-too old. So he left for vacation in Parisian hospital after rest in private villa-chateau cause now it's haga* (that Djibouti summer, sun it hot lead melting on your skull, even the asphalt on the road yell mama mama I'm too-too melted). Haga, too fierce. All the leaders (that use to be English before, now not so sure) they left to rest up in Paris, Switzerland, Washimton (for the big somebodies), Addis, Cairo, Yemen (for the small fry—that cook language, Ayanleh who was student cook for the Whites before mobilization told me that). And us, we famished an languished on bald mountain there. We bite our nails cause of nothing to do. Gotta attack Scud making too many corner kicks, an beat it up a little, I say. Gotta hit Scud in Achilles' heel. But that little chief of us, he don't agree. You need green light from chiefa staff even, he answer. Man! We ain't out of this yet. Little chief of us with walkie-talkie an old VHF radio (cause big chief need Motorola cell, of course) he don't agree at all. You think we having fun here? We maintaining the blockade so the rebels are cut off from urban centers. Bullshit. For long time now, Scud been getting supplies from the sea with fast little patrol boats getting ammunition and 9mm in Yemen, that not even confidential top military secret. Even some wounded rebels, they get treated in Peltier Hospital in Djibouti cause they got cousins in goverment too. Me I say all that business shady-shady. He who has ears, let him hear, cept maybe the phony deaf. The country's future's dot-dot-dot suspension points so you gotta think real hard. When war's over, I look for nice chic job. Yes, I know profession like that, it real job front of American Embassy or Mitterrand Consulate, yes. But hey, that my secret.

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Medium 9781574412406

5. In Mem

Aimee La Brie University of North Texas Press PDF



real-life survival tips: In the Wilderness, At Home, When You

Find a Lump.

Other tips: In a lightning storm, stay away from open fields and don’t carry an umbrella. If a tornado approaches, run to the nearest ditch and lie face down. The tornado may pass. You might hear a moment of pure silence in the eye of it. If a ball rolls out onto the street, look both ways and ask yourself, Is the ball more important than your own life? Don’t climb a ladder wearing socks. Don’t remove an arrow on your own. Find out your allergies as soon as possible. A simple bee sting could be the end of you. Don’t act scared about performing mouth-to-mouth on an ugly person. This is life and death we’re talking about here, not a beauty contest. By all means, don’t spread honey all over your body and lie down on a fire ant hill.

When Mrs. Pototnick first introduced Mem to the class, she said, “And this is Memory who will be staying at school for awhile until her mom gets better.” This sounded to Mem like at

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Medium 9780253329561

Chapter Ten

Scott Russell Sanders Indiana University Press ePub

In boots and hoods and ankle-flapping capes, with masks drawn close to hide their faces, Teeg and Phoenix walked among the circular oil stains of the tank farm. Behind them, the gamepark flung its riotous colors toward the night-darkened dome, and farther behind, near the city center, buildings heaped up in pyramids and honeycombs of light. Ahead of them loomed the dark knobby shapes of the few remaining oil tanks.

“What if I can’t—” Phoenix began.

Teeg shushed him quickly. “You can. Now be still and keep your mind centered. No doubts. You’ve got to be clear.”

They passed between two partly-demolished tanks. Where lasers had cut through the triple-hulled walls, cauterized edges gleamed with a dull luster. This might be the last ingathering here, Teeg realized, for the wreckers were gnawing their way each week nearer to the tank where the seekers met. The pipeline leading from here to the mountains near Whale’s Mouth Bay had already been severed. Phoenix had to pass the test tonight, for there might not be another chance.

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Medium 9789351380511


A.J. Sebastian SDB Laxmi Publications PDF


Girish Karnad’s Wedding

Album: An Overview

9.1  Introduction

Girish Karnad (1938 - ) has powerfully portrayed socio-cultural, mythical and historical themes in his oeuvre of plays such as Yayati (1961), Hayavadana (1971), Ma Nishada

(1964), Tughlaq (1964), Nagamandala (1990), Tale-danda (1993), The Fire and the

Rain (1998), The Dreams of Tipu Sultan (2000), Bali: The Sacrifice (2004), A Heap of Broken Images (2004), Flowers: A Dramatic Monologue (2005) and Wedding Album

(2009). His plays have been universal in appeal with “efficacy and entertainment… to urge a socio-cultural interrogation” (Mukherjee 22).

In Wedding Album, though the title refers to a video made by Vidula’s family for her prospective groom in America, the story moves like a collage of snapshots exploring the characters in their hopes, frustrations, emotional tangles. The play gives insights into contemporary middle class Indian society in the wake of technological advancement.

The play is humorous and comical, marked by irony, multiple issues and questions of social and emotional nature. The play is like the modern day TV serials, presenting a realistic family situation. It also demystifies middle class South Indian Brahmin marriage

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Medium 9780253006837

35: Alice

Abdourahman A. Waberi Indiana University Press ePub



WHEN A WIFE IS CROSS with her husband or neglected by him, she goes back to her father's household and can't come back unless she's accompanied by a delegation that includes the members of his family laden with gifts. Before that, the husband has been summoned, sermonized, and returned to the straight and narrow if need be. A ram is slaughtered and the quarrel drowned in the family celebration. If, for one reason or another, the wife is not brought back at the end of a few days, she is considered divorced from her husband. At least, that's how things went in the time when the importance of a family was calculated more by the number of its neighbors than by the size of its flock. In the same way, one did not marry inside the clan but allied oneself with another clan from the great tribal family. Today, it's all going to the devil, he mumbles.

That just shows that my father-in-law has remained the only member of the family I enjoy seeing again. When he has nothing personal to tell me, he instructs me in the customs of the country; it's his way of breaking the ice and being useful.

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Medium 9781771870023

Showdown in Fort Benton

Worrell, P.J. Thistledown Press ePub

Showdown in Fort Benton

I’M TREATING MY WIFE TO A weekend in Fort Benton and it’s not even her birthday or our anniversary. She was very impressed with the room I booked. It’s their most expensive room. And I mean high end. It even has a balcony where they say ladies used to watch gunfights on Front Street. Plus we’ve got a view of two teepees pitched across the Upper Missouri River. After we checked in on Friday night, my wife soaked in the clawfoot tub and I toasted myself for coming up with such a brilliant idea.

Last night, we ate at The Union Grille. That’s the name of the posh restaurant in our hotel. We had duck with a rice mixture and a pistachio sauce. Pricey, not a lot of food, but Sheila raved about it. The only time I ever tasted pistachio before, it was ice-cream in Waskesiu.

Sheila said not to splurge again tonight, so we’re at Bob’s Riverfront Café. It’s the only eating establishment that isn’t a pub. The Sunday special is hamburger steak, beverage and dessert included, for $11.99. Some country and western crooner is going on and on about how he’s gonna pay the rent.

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Medium 9781927068151

In the Low Post

Hayes, Derek Thistledown Press ePub


I HAVE THE BALL IN THE LOW post, my back to the basket. Adrian, a lanky eighteen-year-old kid, six foot six — his calves a third of this length — is draped over me. I pump fake and Adrian bites, leaving his feet. I dig my shoulder into his stomach and hook the ball over him, but even so he smacks it out of bounds. He knows better than to say anything. I grab his T-shirt and pretend like I’m going to slap him. “Just joking. Nice block, bro’.” All ten of us stand waiting for the game to continue, no one saying the obvious — that it is, of course, my job to retrieve the ball. I’m not going to make an issue of it. I might have as a teenager, but I’m twenty-five now. I follow the ball over a clump of grass to a chain link fence, where it rolls up against a leg. I jump back a step. The leg belongs to a kid, who is lying still. With the sun setting he’s difficult to see. His skin is lighter than mine. He’s dirty and he smells like vomit. His lack of expression and unwillingness to call out as the ball hit his leg is what trips me up the most.

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Medium 9780253006837

14: Abdo-Julien

Abdourahman A. Waberi Indiana University Press ePub



GRANDFATHER USED TO SAY: the desert you see there, well, it's alive, like you and me. Proof is, the dunes are white in their childhood and grow yellow over the centuries. To see it, all you have to do is put on the right kind of glasses or stand at the right distance. Nothing ever dies, and the desert you see there can regain its former face, the face of the savannah, go back to the sea of water and grass, the way it was a few million years ago. Clock time and hourglass time are nothing, absolutely nothing, compared to the age of the globe. In the same way, man's path is not linear like the horizon: it has roots, branches, and sap. It's all renewal, rhizomes, and ramifications. Man is a tree, my boy. I hardly listen to him; he's been talking by himself for hours. A hundred billion neurons, what a capital! But very few people draw generously from this capital Providence has bestowed on us—not to mention the evils of khat, alcohol, tobacco, and the intoxication of arms. Men are brainless hunks of meat; I almost choke when I say that to you. A star falls from my eyes, they're suddenly misty, a tear is putting a pearl on my wrinkled cheek. It is time for me to go away and leave you to your daydreams, my boy. I'll come back tomorrow and we'll pick up the discussion exactly where we left off.

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Medium 9780253329561

Chapter Twenty-One

Scott Russell Sanders Indiana University Press ePub

Patience, patience, Teeg kept reminding herself. You have waited seventeen years, you can wait a few days longer. But she grew more and more edgy as the trip to Portland was delayed, first by rainy weather, then by a series of mishaps at Jonah Colony. While testing dirt samples, Indy cut a finger and fell ill with blood poisoning. She had no sooner recovered than Jurgen came down with a fever, broke out in a rash, and spent three days writhing on his sleepcushion while Hinta and two helpers pinned him down. Soon after his fever broke, Arda discovered all the bluegill floating belly-up in the fish-tanks, casualties of some chemical imbalance, and several people had to go out hunting for wild stock to replace them.

And so departure was put off day by day. Phoenix seemed glad of the delay. “Give you time to think it over,” he told her. She thought of little else. Every kilometer of the route was mapped out. She could visualize each range of hills, each river and thicket, right up to Portland. But there she drew a blank. What would the place look like? When she had first arrived in Portland with her mother, the city had been abandoned for three years. Here and there a roof had caved in, weeds and saplings had burst the pavements, fires had devoured a few old neighborhoods of wooden houses. But most of the city was built of metal and plastic, and so had endured, which was why her mother had been sent there. Dismantling a city, her mother used to say, was like plucking a chicken, and then carving the meat off its bones, and then whittling away at the skeleton. There was very little left of Portland at the end. Since the wooden houses were useless, they were spared along with the brick-paved streets. Most of the stone buildings were framed in steel, which meant they had come down, and the towers came down, wires and pipes were dug up from the ground, every appliance that had not been stolen was melted, thousands of abandoned vehicles were shredded, and the city at last was stripped bare.

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Medium 9780253016881

Julie Patch

Edited by Michael Martone and Bryan Furu Break Away Book Club Edition ePub

Julie Patch

My mother is effing nuts. I would like to put this more politely, to be sure: she is touched, she is suffering pre-dementia, she has her spells, she was never the sharpest tool in the shed, and over time she’s gotten duller, she is rationality-challenged, her marbles are not all where she first found them, she’s not quite right in the head, her screws are not as tight as they could be, she’s gone around the bend a bit, she’s not on her rocker, the light in her attic has dimmed, there are bats in her belfry, etc. But the fact is she’s gone absolutely bonkers. She’s nutty as a fruitcake. She’s stark raving mad. She’s batty, loony, bananas, cuckoo, crazy, dotty, screwy, schizo, psycho, mad as a hatter. She has taken leave of her senses, cracked up, gone wacko, she’s unhinged, disturbed, psychotic, deranged, demented, she’s certifiable, she’s crazy, a lunatic, non compos mentis, mad as a March hare. In short, she is a total nutjob. My sister Jackie, too. My sister Jackie in spades. Mind you, it is not my mother or my sister’s religious devotion that causes me to say this. I think spirituality is a very important part of one’s life. But this is not about spirituality. This is about carnal pleasure and displeasure masquerading as holiness. It’s sick, all of it. Rebuilding your hymen? Turning the clock back on your virginity? Coming up with some elaborate word game about your Matrix and your Essence so you don’t have to admit you got laid by Reverend Dave? WTF, as they say in the text messages. I’d be ROFLing if it weren’t so sad, so pathetic. I mean, my life is no carpet of carnations—a five-year-old kid and a thirty-one-year-old ex-husband who’s going on seventeen as far as I can tell, and a dead-end job at the DMV followed by two nights a week cocktail waitressing at the Fort Wayne Holiday Inn out on Nine Mile Road by the airport, where the businessmen think the outfit they make you wear (black tights and a black miniskirt and a ruffled white blouse unbuttoned down to there) gives them carte blanche to stare down your shirt front and pinch your thighs as you walk by—but the bottom line is I suck it up and get on with it. I have defense mechanisms. I have a sense of self. Somebody’s hand grazes my behind and I tell them they try that again I’ll break every finger they own. It hurts my tips except for the ones who actually like the abuse because it means somebody’s paying attention. But I have my pride. I’m not going to lie down for anybody, like my sister did, and I’m not going to celebrate a self-enforced sexlessness while I read about flagellations and stonings and dismemberments and other acts of violence that get transfigured into religious porn for those scared of their own desire. You have a body, people, own it! To be honest, though, not that I did a whole lot better at first. I mean, in college I drank a lot and went home with a lot of losers. I fell in love with one of them (that would be you, Leo), and compounded my error by marrying him. Turned out he wanted the same thing they all wanted, didn’t much want me after he got it, only by then we were already mediocrely wed. Particulars aside, in other words, I wasn’t much different from my sister Jackie, who clutches her hands over her belly and tells me Reverend Dave worships her temple or her Matrix or whatever word he’s using these days to get inside her drawers. But Violet was a gift, however poor the source (I’m talking about you, Leo), and that’s something. I just wish her father shared that belief, that children are a gift, and you must provide for them. Leo doesn’t have a protective bone in his body—unless you’re talking about his gift for self-preservation. For cutting and running. For skating on his responsibilities. He works first shift at the tool and die plant (when it’s running)—he’s a floor manager because he’s got a degree—and he could help with the child care sometimes, but no, that would cut into his drinking time after work. Mom’s too wrapped up in her Lives of the Saints to take much of an interest in the life of her granddaughter, and Jackie says I could drop her off at the First Family of Christ Living Center and Day Care, but I’d be worried Reverend Dave would take an interest in my daughter’s ankles. Or her toenails. So instead of having my family step up I’m hiring sitters the evenings I’m slinging drinks. And I’m still going home with the wrong sort of men. Sometimes you do get lonesome for the company. Once I even called Leo. “I knew you’d come around,” he said, shucking his jeans while we were still having a glass of wine on the sofa, and that’s when I threw him out for the second time in my life. I realized I wasn’t that desperate. But there’s something in me, something like a weakness, that makes me desperate anyway. Every few weeks or so I find myself doing the walk of shame at 2 AM from some two-bit apartment complex across the parking lot to my car and paying the sitter twice what I should because they had to stay three hours later than I said I needed them. That or some guy is telling me as he’s zipping himself, “I’ll call you,” and he never calls, and I know he’s not going to call, but as he’s gently pulling the door closed behind him with happiness and relief and I’m lying there all scummy-mouthed and broken-hoped but semi-in-love-with this guy who just used me, I’m still believing he might be the one, or I’m telling myself he’s the last one like that before I meet the one, the really-for-real one, perhaps the very next night, I tell myself, I just have to open my legs and hope—

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Medium 9781574412994

Gaynor’s Revolution

Jane Roberts Wood University of North Texas Press PDF

Part 3: The ’60s • The Cold Springs Revolutions�

Gaynor’s Revolution

When Bobby, the president’s brother was assassinated,

Gaynor knew she would be going home. She had to go. The

United States had changed. She needed the solace of home.

On a perfect summer morning, “I have to go home,” she told Betsy. “My mother and father need me.”

Betsy’s kitchen was full of sunshine. The light shone through embroidered curtains to make snowflake patterns on the floor. Betsy shifted her gaze from Gaynor’s face to the picture of a five-year-old Timothy playing with a litter of kittens.

“I am going to have a knee replacement in November.”

“I didn’t know you had scheduled it.”

“In a month,” Betsy repeated. In the warm sun, her blue eyes gazed serenely at the little boy and his kittens.

“Of course, I’ll come back for that. I’ll be here for the surgery.”

“To stay?”

“I’m not sure. But I’ll be with you all through your rehabilitation.”

And as simply as that, without rules or boundaries, a gentle skirmish between the two women had begun.

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Medium 9789814625005


Stephen Leather Monsoon Books Pte. Ltd. ePub


Inspector Zhang removed his spectacles and polished them with a large red handkerchief as he waited for the Malay receptionist to finish her phone call. It was a hot day, even for tropical Singapore, and he was already regretting the five minute walk from Clarke Quay MRT station to the Best Western Hotel on Carpenter Street. His wife had borrowed his car to visit one of her relatives in Malaysia, his sergeant’s car was being serviced, and there were no cars available in the office pool so he had no option other than to use the MRT. The receptionist put down the receiver, flashed him a professional smile, and asked him how she could help. “My name is Inspector Zhang of the Singapore Police Force,” he said. “I am with the CID at New Bridge Road.” He nodded at his companion, a twenty-four-year old Chinese woman in a pale green suit with her hair tied up in a neat bun. “This is my colleague, Sergeant Lee.” Sergeant Lee smiled and held out her warrant card. “I believe it was the manager who called us,” said Inspector Zhang, putting away his wallet. “About a body.”

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Medium 9781771870641

The Quinzhee

Hobsbawn-Smith, dee Thistledown Press ePub


HE WAS FOURTEEN THE YEAR WE built the quinzhee, and I was seventeen, the youngest kid in grade twelve. Old enough to know better, our taciturn Irish mother was in the habit of saying. She never said it to me again after he died, but I have said it to myself often enough.

I have trained myself to never utter those words to my own son or daughter. But they reverberate in my head as I watch my twins go out into the sunlight, intent on testing themselves against the world. That is ridiculous, I know. All of life involves risk, and they could shatter their fragile bodies by sheer happenstance on the sidewalk right in front of this house. I am a cautious mother, in a way I never thought possible when I was seventeen and invulnerable, and Leo grows impatient with me even though he understands. “You have to let them go, Jess,” he says. But today, on the first anniversary of my mother’s death, it is too late to beg her forgiveness, or Jeremy’s, and I cannot find an olive branch within me to extend to my own hand.

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