998 Chapters
  Title Author Publisher Format Buy Remix
Medium 9780253006653

Six

Gilbert Gatore Indiana University Press ePub

95. Ever since he was born, Niko had lived inside himself. He’d been told it wasn’t a problem, and he’d never had any reason not to believe that. From the very beginning he’d been inclined to accept everything.

96. The day he was born had coincided with the rainy season, which at this latitude can be unspeakably violent. A storm had announced his arrival to a preoccupied world. While the entire household was running around in every direction to reinforce the roofing and windows, bring in the cattle, gather the children, cover the water well, and protect the fire, his mother delivered him, alone in a corner, her voice muffled by the wind blowing through the cracks and the pelting raindrops on the sheet metal roof. His mother did not rise from the hard clay floor where she offered her last gift, and for a while the newborn rolled around on the ground unnoticed. In fact, more than once he was almost crushed. His faint cries and paltry little contortions, covered up by the noise and darkness in the house, brought him no aid.

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Medium 9781574412994

The Bridge Club

Jane Roberts Wood University of North Texas Press PDF

22�

Out the Summerhill Road

The Bridge Club

Like the swampy estuaries of Red River, rumors encircle the town and then the very word—Jackson Jackson Jackson— rises above the willows and swamp magnolias and bois d’ arc trees along Red River, to threaten the peace-loving citizens of the town of Cold Springs. When the body of a woman who had been shot and dumped into Red River was found miles downstream last year, “You suppose that Morris boy . . . ,” Mr.

Olson said to the men unloading A-grade pine at his lumberyard. Leaving the thought unfinished he lit a cigar, blew out the match and put it in his pocket. “I knew Jackson Morris.

Knew him too well! When he was in high school, that kid almost burned up my lumberyard.”

And when a widow living on a farm fourteen miles outside town was found shot to death in the living room of her farmhouse two years ago, “You reckon that Jackson Morris had something to do with it?” Miss Oates, the Cold Springs librarian, asked.

“Well, he could have,” her assistant, a high school senior, replied and added, “My mother said that if Jackson wasn’t guilty, he wouldn’t have run away four days before he was supposed to graduate.”

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Medium 9781574413199

Jenny, with Bulldog

Geoff Schmidt University of North Texas Press PDF

Jenny, with Bulldog

I

n the end, Jenny Cantwell was left alone with a dog. He was a white bulldog, and a dwarf, the product of severe in-breeding.

She’d felt lonely one Sunday after dinner in Chase with her sons

Cooper and Hawthorne, and on the way home she’d seen a sign on the highway that said BULLDOGS FIVE MILES. At the five-mile mark, she saw a sign taped below a mailbox at the head of a long dirt driveway: BULLDOGS FOR CHEAP HERE.

She’d driven down the lane to a farmhouse, the yard littered with machinery she didn’t recognize, and she’d been a farmer’s wife for years. When she got out of the car she heard them snuffling and growling in a pen beside the kitchen door. A young woman who’d had the pretty beaten out of her by life had come out of the kitchen and shown her the dogs. Jenny picked the smallest one, thinking it a puppy. She paid fifty dollars. The lonely feeling passed almost as soon as she’d gotten back to her new duplex in

Centerville, and she never bothered naming the dog.

She could never get him clean. Some lingering infection the vet couldn’t cure prompted him to rub his rump feverishly on her new white walls, leaving distasteful discolorations low down on the wainscoting. Sometimes he would have seizures. He would be happy and panting and rubbing up against her walls and then something would click off in his head and he would freeze and stare at some fixed point in space with his head weaving slightly.

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Medium 9789351380511

Ch_25_F

A.J. Sebastian SDB Laxmi Publications PDF

25

Psycho-moral Predicament in Lakshmi

Narayan Misra’s Vermillion on Fire

(Sindoor ki Holi)

Depicting social problems in his plays, Laxmi Narayan Mishra (1903-1987), the popular

Hindi playwright and theatre personality from Uttar Pradesh, is known for his Sanyasi1930, Raksha ka Mandir-1931 (Temple of Demons), Mukti ka Rahasya-1932 (Secret of

Freedom), Sindur ki Holi-1933 (Vermillion on Fire), Garuda Dhawaj-1945 (Flag with

Garuda’s Figure), Vatsaraj-1950, and Chakratyub-1953 (Chakra Formation). Popular for his drama of ideas like Ibsen and Bernard Shaw, in Vermillion on Fire, the dramatist brings out powerfully psycho-moral dilemma of the Indian society in the 1930s.

The story surrounds a young man Rajnikant who is murdered by his uncle Bhagwant

Singh, to take possession of his property. In his wicked deed, he is assisted by Harnandan

Singh. They approach Murari Lal, Deputy Collector, incharge of the sub-division by offering bribe. His daughter Chandrakala falls in love with the boy and as the play ends becomes his widow. Murari Lal had his plan of getting his daughter married to Manoj

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Medium 9780253016881

Gregg Pitman

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

Gregg Pitman

The third “g,” the double on the end, is not a misspelling. That is how you spell my name. I am a bastard. My father was a visiting stenography instructor, my night school mother’s teacher at Winesburg’s Business Athenaeum. I was conceived in the simulated office suite on the second floor whose desks had all been graffitied with the swooping swooshes and schwa strokes of its students studying shorthand. In short, shorthand became my first language. With the sharpened red-painted nail of her index finger, my mother, never speaking, transcribed what she was thinking on my belly or on my back as I learned to toddle or on my butt as she changed me. In shorthand, she annotated me with her abbreviated and compressed baby talk in the style of the gestural dingbats, curlicues, and ellipses of this our secret shared language. My growth was stunted by this stunted dialect, abbreviated, and, at the same time, accelerated as shorthand was built for speed. I never, really, learned to speak—my grammar truncated, my vocabulary condensed, the syntax reduced like a roux—but I did learn to listen. Listen: I turned out to have the gift of anticipation. I am a kind of hobbled psychic who only foresees a few seconds into the future, enough to change the story before it is told or, at least, to get the gist of the gist down on paper. It was only natural that I ended up doing what I am doing now. I’m the municipality’s court reporter, a freelance clerk at all the depositions, a civil servant, an auxiliary in the interrogation rooms of the constabulary, recording the endless confessions of the long-winded citizenry whose secrets of incest, abuse, murder, rape, and torture pile up in the coded squiggles and squirms of my spiral-bound oblong pads. At night in my shotgun shack on the West End, I reread the traumatic digestions of trauma, note how all these horrific acts have been transformed, strike that, I meant to say tamed, by their abstraction into the innocent scratches of a child pretending to write. I cannot sleep. Or when I do, I dream of a writhing orgiastic montage of writing run amuck. I wake to moonlight. There, crescent moon is a silent letter in the shorthand of the universe. It stands for “and” or “but” or “or.” Sleepless, I compose grosses of bad news letters for the front office of the Winesburg Knitting Mill, using the supplied templates of boilerplate text, leaving blank the spaces for the recipient and the sender to be supplied by the cursive endless longhand of the anonymous signatory.

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Medium 9780253002365

Chapter Thirty-Six

Gregory Schwipps Indiana University Press ePub

In his dream suddenly there came a knocking. He was on the ocean, in this big-ass cruise ship, one with as much going on inside as outside, and then something was knocking on it. He was on the boat with Spring, of all things and people. Not Summer. He hadn’t seen Summer anywhere on this vessel, although downstairs he’d found a working sawmill. While he and Spring were playing tennis on the top deck, surrounded by nothing but deep blue water, Ray had walked up to them, still covered in sawdust, and said Ollie needed to get back to work. Ollie had yelled at him, said he wasn’t ready to stop playing tennis yet. Which was odd, since he’d never played. He’d been riding the dream along, waiting to see what he and his little friend would discover next, when something started knocking on the ship, like they were running aground. Spring dropped her racquet and started to cry.

He was so tired it took a long time to come back from the dream. As he did, he realized with a jolt he was in the trailer. But it was still halfway dark. He remembered he had to get up for work, since it was Monday. But not even this early. The knocking! What the hell? Someone was at his door! He wasn’t on a big ocean liner at all—he was asleep alone in his trailer and now someone was knocking on his door at 5:37 a.m. And then he remembered Todd’s house and he jerked on a pair of jeans and felt under his bed for the baseball bat.

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Medium 9780253006837

1: Bashir Binladen

Abdourahman A. Waberi Indiana University Press ePub

1

BASHIR BINLADEN

I WAS BORN YESTERDAY, I'm just saying, I mean I was born not so long ago, and even for this little chick of a country I'm not too-too over the hill, see. We're the same age, this country-here and myself, so believe me faithfully I snoop and look everywhere, men an animals like fine clean dressed-up dogs, stuff natural like women's thing. Rocks an flowers too. Oh Lord, I kind of lost Moussa an I got so-so scared. I'm talking all alone to buck myself up, I look overhere or overthere and I can't see nothing…I'm at Roissy, in front of the paradise of the Whites, gotta keep cool, act like professional military. I stare everywhere and name everything I see in the rush an crush of voices an lives. I do love sniffing out people; gotta sniff em up, sort of like them clean well-groomed dogs. That way you avoid problems an bullshit, little sonsabitches think they're Tintin's Captain Haddock. I hate soft old chewngums with no taste. I'm not afraid of nothing, not even foreigners (oh no! am I off my rocker or what? the foreigners, that's us now, the natives here, it's them). That's what we learned in the school of the streets cause real school way-way past. First I was born in tiny little village, Damerjogh its name. After that we came to the big city for my daddy's job. For he always like that, always at port being that longshoreman-there. So me, I cut out quick into the street, to look an look, an learn real-real good. School wasn't my thing, sure I finished fourth grade like everybody else, but school-there back home it's total pyramid. If you lucky you get big diploma, or else it's the street for you, like me. When I finish fourth grade they tell me fit for active work (we call that AW, active work). What you gonna work, little like that? So my whole neighborhood AW. After AW, I did everything in street. That's what I did to get by. Today my mom an dad not around no more to esplain me things I can't understand. I'm not so lucky, I'm all alone with no brother or sister in a country where every family can be a soccer team all by itself or send an emergency brigade straight to planets like Startrek.

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Medium 9781771870948

The World to Come

Altrows, Rona Thistledown Press ePub

THE WORLD TO COME

I’M ROOTING FOR ROBIN. If she can just hold on a while, I think she’ll pull it off.

With the headphones on, she’s a visitor from outer space. The big dark eyes, the large head, the receding chin, the onion-peel-thin skin. Her face is open though. A friendly species.

You get sick of asking yourself why. After a while you just work on getting through and on helping her through.

The birth was textbook perfect. Five hours of very bearable labour. Then, on the second push, out slid the baby, a perfect girl with black curly hair and the long fingers of a concert pianist. Dan and I couldn’t get enough of her.

Soon after her first birthday the changes began. All her hair fell out — even her eyelashes — and and her skin became dry and wrinkled. We saw veins sticking out of her forehead; her protruding belly reminded us of television images of starving children. She seemed to stop growing. What was happening to our baby? Fear stopped us from finding out; instead we speculated wildly. Dan said that she might just be going a stage. We both realized that was ridiculous but still we didn’t act. I avoided taking her for immunizations or checkups. Gradually Dan retreated completely into his management consulting practice and was hardly ever home when Robin was awake. He was always at the office or a client site. Or somewhere.

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Medium 9781574412994

Mary Martha

Jane Roberts Wood University of North Texas Press PDF

Part 2: 1980 • The Women of Cold Springs�

Mary Martha

On Tuesday morning Mary Martha is awakened earlier than usual by the noisy coupling of alley cats. When she looks out her window, the cats are nowhere in sight, but she notices the unseasonable fog drifting through her azaleas and down into the dry creek bed that runs alongside her bedroom windows. This kind of thinking is what she has managed to avoid most of her life. Her imagination knows no bounds when she thinks of it: at first the easy sweetness, then the barely noticeable drift leading to the blood rush, and, after that, there is no turning back from the maelstrom of sex. She has seen it happen to her friends, seen them forever swept into the endless whirlpool of demanding husbands and faithless lovers and careless children.

As if the cats and the fog are not enough, yesterday she had seen a gray-headed man standing beside a smoking car on I-30. Unable to believe it was Jackson Morris, she stopped and then she had seen the smile, the blue eyes, the sauntered walk as he came towards her. “I’d rather pick up a snake,” she told herself before speeding off. Glancing in the mirror, she saw a man with his hands on his hips, standing as if lost in the middle of the highway. Was the man Jackson? In the bright light of morning she is not at all sure.

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Medium 9780861967254

Chapter 1

Tony Grey John Libbey Publishing ePub

Resting on pillows of morning air, a lone eagle stares at the ancient road of many-citied Syria. There’s something strange below, beyond understanding, too big to eat. An exotic creature glistens and crawls in the early summer sun, like a gigantic bronze-clad caterpillar. With forty thousand mouths to feed, it gobbles up crops and herds, leaving little more than blight in its path. Local people are gaping in stunned apprehension; many scuttle into their farm houses to hide. The dreaded Roman army’s on the march, in a massive troop movement that’ll change the course of history.

Its head is a man, charming and well spoken, but notorious for sordid greed. His love of lucre could make Midas seem lacking in monetary spirit, or Croesus neglectful of wealth. Former triumvir and the richest man in Rome, Marcus Licinius Crassus is in the Roman province to launch an invasion of the affluent Parthian empire next door to the east. Through wealth and political manoeuvring he’s procured the command of seven legions. It’s the greatest success of his career, but only the penultimate step. Much more than this, even more than the expected spoils of war, are at stake. He’s burning to become the number one citizen of Rome, civis princeps, never stops thinking about it. For that he must command an army that wins a glorious victory – on a par with what Scipio and his rival Pompey, not to mention the great Caesar, have achieved. Parthia is the place to do it, the successor to the Persian Empire of the Achaemids.

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Medium 9789351380504

Ch_6_F

A.J. Sebastian SDB Laxmi Publications PDF

6

Probing Relationships in Jayanta

Mahapatra’s Selected Short Stories

Though known for his great poetry replete with symbolism and imagery, Jayanta

Mahapatra (1928 - ) as a writer is preoccupied with projecting cultural and human values. In an interview he is recorded to have said: “Write whatever you feel, feel from your heart, from your inside. One thing will also help you. Just you write from the level, tilt a little higher level. If we can go somewhat towards God in the guise of writing…

If we can that should be our goal…Your conscience and soul search good things”

(“Interview.” http://retort.brentley.com). I am particularly attracted by his collection of short stories entitled The Green Gardener and Other Stories, that portray universal human predicaments. In this article I attempt a reading of four stories, viz. “Eyes,”

“Another Day,” “Ringing Silence,” and “Turn Left for Happiness,” where the fictionist delves into intricacies of mutual relationships among couples - their doubts and fears, faithfulness and betrayals, and agony and ecstasy in love.

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Medium 9780253010476

Chapter 24 Fifteenth Year

William Williams Indiana University Press ePub

My new friend had resided now about a year with me and we were become very happy togather. And it fell out soon after that we both took a ramble with our guns in the Woods. Now as we were going he took a plant, and shewing it to me observed that it was a fine Narcotick, as he termed it; and he after this shewed me others saying, “This is a very fine Stiptick, that a Diuretick.”

“You deal much in Ticks, Messmate,” sd. I. “But if you had once about a dozen such thumpers as I have seen our Harry pull off our Dogs at times, well fixed under each of your arms, you could not make so ready a conveyance of them as you can with a small stone with all your slight of hand.—You have a great knack at your Scots Songs,” said I.

“Did you not observe a book of them among my things?”

“Oh, you have a fund of humour then, I can assure you.”

“If you have such a thing,” said he, “it is a good cordial for low Spirits.”

“If I could read them—” I answered.

“I can do that for you,” he said.

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Ch_10_F

A.J. Sebastian SDB Laxmi Publications PDF

10

Social Realism in Sriranga’s

Agnisakshi

Kannada playwright, Sriranga (Adya Rangacharya 1904-1984), being a bitter critic of the hypocrisies of his society, has been realistically portraying social maladies through his plays. Dealing with a variety of themes and employing various techniques, he has exposed social evils satirically and comically. His major subjects include the independence movement, Gandhi’s influence, disintegration of the joint family, religious hypocrisy, untouchability, poverty, exploitation, unemployment and extramarital relationships (Lal

2009: 383-4). He has been noted for the “timelessness of the plays, the universality of his characters…and his deep understanding of human nature and the theatre” (Desai

2004: 15). His contribution to theatre made Girish Karnard acknowledge him as the first

Kannada playwright who “mercilessly flayed social pretensions and created a language which younger playwrights could use” (8). Being a Gandhian he had his perception of political freedom calling for social change, leading to economic prosperity of India. His ideals called for a societal transformation discarding caste and religious fundamentalism.

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Medium 9781574412796

Chapter Nine

Jane Roberts Wood University of North Texas Press PDF

Chapter Nine

1

Chr istopher is dr iving An ne to his house for dinner. He is driving an ‘87 Volvo, a modest car for a former navy lieutenant. Or so Anne thinks. He calls it his pickup. It is midAugust and hot. She feels wrinkled and sweaty in her white linen pants and sleeveless black tee shirt. She will be glad to get inside.

Either the car’s air-conditioning is not working well or it is not working at all.

When she had opened the door and seen him, seen his really great smile, his lively brown eyes, she was immediately, surprisingly glad to see him, and she had given him a quick hug. But now she feels discontented. Almost irritable. She has spent the summer teaching and Christopher has been traveling, perhaps traveling.

She’s unsure of this. And the long hot drive to his house has given her time to reflect that, in the five weeks of his absence, he has not been in touch with her. Not by e-mail, telephone, or letter.

One reason she had been so glad to see him was that she has so much to tell him. But by the time he turns into his driveway, somewhat overgrown by grass, and hurries around to open her door, she is beginning to feel quite resentful, although she coldly observes that his house, set back on the property, is beautifully

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Medium 9781574413199

Chapter Four

Geoff Schmidt University of North Texas Press PDF

Chapter Four

H

e lived with his wife once in a sprawling three-story house on Caplewood Drive. They rented the ground floor. They slept in a room at the back of the house that jutted out of the house precariously, and overlooked the steep slope of a ravine choked with kudzu, the huge trees strewn with green. The room sagged and swayed. The air conditioner hummed and clattered. This was in Alabama, and the air conditioner was always on. Above them various couples they knew had moved in and out. They themselves had lived upstairs, until the ground floor had become vacant. A man with cats had lived in the basement apartment until it flooded. In this rocking room they made love and slept late. In this rocking room surrounded by green they lay clutching each other in the dark. When his wife miscarried the first time, he had wept in that bed, the high wind rocking them, their hands on each other. He mourned what wasn’t. In that bed they ate and slept and made love, rocking, reading. They read poetry and physics. He took comfort in physics, where all things are possible, an infinite number of parallel universes, ten billion universes where their first child carried to term, an endless stream of cribs rocking in the dark, in the wind of the worlds.

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