Results for: “Fiction”
|Jane Roberts Wood||University of North Texas Press|
atching for Dixie between classes, Bobby sees nothing else.
When she appears, he walks with her down the hall. “Kiss me once and kiss me twice and kiss me once again,” he whistles softly, although he’s never kissed her. Not on her lips. Not one time.
Although she lets him kiss her neck, and she lets him touch her breasts, when he tries to kiss her lips, abandon is not in her vocabulary. But if it’s dancing, well, Dixie dances with more abandon than any girl he’s ever known!
The dance is two weeks away, and every night he hurries through supper so they can practice. Mrs. Balderidge is always at home, but she never comes into the room when he is there.
The first time they practiced after Dixie’s father left, Bobby said, “Could I say hello to your mother?”
“Not tonight,” Dixie said.
“I promised your father I’d help if I could.”
“But not tonight. She’s upset. Somebody left some flowers on the porch. It upset her.”
“No. Well, maybe. They were in a green vase. She’s always trying to remember something about a green bottle. She cries when she tries to remember.”See All Chapters
|Gregory Schwipps||Indiana University Press||ePub|
Sunday morning came down hard on him, sleeping in the hot, airless bedroom of his trailer. The window stood open, the screen behind it torn and pulled away from the frame, but no breeze came through. The dew had long since burned off and a green fly that had spent the night outside on the windowsill felt the sun warm its wings and walked through an open corner of the screen and buzzed over Ollie’s sleeping mouth on its way to the smells of the kitchen. It was gravid with eggs and seeking a rotting mass suitable for the raising of maggots. Somewhere in his unconsciousness he sensed the reverberations of the fly’s wings and woke up. He was sweaty and waking up hot pissed him off, but then he thought of her and he felt himself smile. Summer.
The room smelled of sweat and beer and the sheets clung to him in a dank mess. On his wall, the antique Pabst Blue Ribbon sign with the built-in thermometer read over eighty degrees. He closed his eyes again.
He had found Coondog, and they’d walked the emptying fairgrounds together until they ran into Troy Beasley, someone Coondog used to work with. Troy gave them a ride back to Coondog’s place in an old ‘69 Firebird that had been painted red with black flames on the hood and front quarters. Once there, all three of them got drunk while throwing horseshoes under the security light in the backyard. At close to four in the morning, Troy gave Ollie a ride back to the fairgrounds, where his truck was still parked in the pits. Troy was leaving then anyway to go wake up his ex-girlfriend to try to have sex with her. A long night, but today Ollie would not go to work, and that pleased the hell out of him.See All Chapters
|William Williams||Indiana University Press||ePub|
Fifth year commenced. One evening as we were all three sitting togather I reasumed the Subject of their going back again. On this they both caressed me fondly and said, “Yes, go, one, two, three!”
“No,” said I, “if I should go your folks dont know me and so would have nothing to say to me. But there is your Canoa—go when you please, and I can remain as you found me.”
Upon this a kind of Sullen Silence ensued, and I observed the tears to fall from the Girls eyes. Upon this I took her in my arms, and told Harry to observe his Sister. He then fell to blubbering and said, “I never go, Penoly, out you and Luta.”
In the midst of this affecting scene all at once I felt a thing sting me on my thigh sharply. I got up and found a huge Centipeed under me. In a short time it becam almost Intolerable and gave them so suddain an alarm that it quite dissipated the other passion. Harry ran and killed the inseect and pounding it with some wet dirt laid it on my thigh, and Luta bound it up after the best way she could. I then retired to lay down, was in a feaver for above an hour with my head on the Girls lap, weeping over me in the most tender manner; and thus I fell asleep. How long I lay I know not, but when I awoke I was almost choaked with thirst. They gave me some fish soup, and by the morning I felt not the least uneasiness. But when I began to shew myself as was usual, Luta said to me softly, “I never go, Penoly, no go. But Penoly go, and Harry too.”See All Chapters
|A.J. Sebastian SDB||Laxmi Publications|
Assessing T.P. Sukumaran’s
Lord Ayanchery: A Cucumber Play
T.P. Sukumaran in “Lord Ayanchery” attempts a Cucumber Play which is an amateur theatre form once popular in North Malabar, now in North Kerala. It is a very simple theatre of alienation without any splendour. There is no makeup or light and sound effect. Men also play the roles of women. Being unsophisticated, the stage setting is a very simple. Being a theatre of alienation, a cucumber play often reminds the audience about what is going on in front of them. In such theatre there is a mingling of Jerzy
Grotowski’s Poor Theatre and Bertolt Brecht’s Epic Theatre (Sukumaran 123).
It was Polish director Jerzy Grotowski, who introduced the idea of Poor Theatre since theatre in general became very elaborate and relied heavily on theatrical devices such as light, sound, costumes and decor sets to add spectacle to the performance. As a result the skills of the actors were overshadowed and became less important. He argued that theatre should convert back to its roots, though stage cannot be richer than the cinema, with the actor’s voice and body skills given primary spectacle on stage. Grotowski did away with everything that distracted the audience from the actor such as elaborate sets, lights and sound. Hence relationship between the audience and the actor became central to Poor Theatre (“Poor Theatre.” www.helium.com).See All Chapters
|Michael Martone||Break Away Book Club Edition||ePub|
Walt “Helper” Voltz
You are looking at the proud owner of the shortest short line in the United States or really what you are looking at is the longest story about the shortest short line in the country.
Your eyes go back and forth over these lines like my engine shuttles back and forth on my siding. My railroad runs 5,284 feet east to west, west to east. I have 150-pound flat-bottomed rail, and every morning I don my gandy dancer’s hard hat and walk the length of the property, checking the joint plates and lag bolts, the tie plates and spikes, the ties themselves with their date nails I have stamped and installed. The ballast is pristine ballast, crushed quartz (from the smallest quarry in the United States, a scooped-out glacial moraine banking up against the property) that sparkles in the Indiana sunlight. I switch the switches on either end of the line that connect me to the mainline of the Chicago, Fort Wayne and Eastern, née the old Conrail, née the older Pennsylvania, née the older still Pittsburgh, Fort Wayne and Chicago. I check the switch points and the frogs. I maintain what’s left, hereabouts, of the telegraph too. I have a shed at each terminus of my line. I will send train orders from one depot to the other, following the old rules of the old rulebooks, about train movements, labor practices, and traffic. I’ve been told I have a distinctive hand on the key. Dah dah, dit, dah dah dah.See All Chapters
|S. A. An-sky||Indiana University Press||ePub|
MIRKIN WAS SO upset that as he was running into the dining room, he couldn’t find the door right away and rushed helplessly around the room.
Just at that moment the side door opened and Manya glanced in.
“Is that you, Mirkin? Are you leaving? Olga asks you to wait for her; she’s also going home.”
At first Mirkin didn’t understand what she was talking about and asked, “Where’s the door, to get out?”
“We’re heading the same way, aren’t we, Mirkin?” he heard Yegorova’s voice coming from Manya’s room.
“Ah, it’s you!” he replied joyfully. “There’s no way I could find the door here. . . . Yes, we’re going the same way,” he added, recalling where Yegorova lived, and he was surprised that he knew.
They left together. It was already close to midnight. The streets were completely empty. Somewhere the sound of a night watchman could be heard. An old Jew sat on the steps of a shop; he was the watchman and was loudly chanting the Psalms.
Wrapping himself tightly in his light coat, huddling from the cold and from internal agitation, Mirkin walked a bit ahead of Yegorova, moderating his pace so he didn’t outrun her. He felt good in her presence and gradually calmed down. Upon leaving the house, his first thought was to tell Yegorova about his argument with Schifrin, but he felt instinctively that it would be somewhat awkward—and didn’t say anything.See All Chapters
|Gilbert Gatore||Indiana University Press||ePub|
60. When the first two shots rang out, the monkeys had scattered into the forest, while Niko remained sprawled among the melons. Had the one monkey come to him to wake him up and flee with him? That’s when the shot, which must have been intended for him, had struck it down, Niko tells himself as he decides to approach the animal, whose moaning has stopped. He recognizes him as the same one who brought him back to consciousness the day he fell into the cave. He could recognize that massive body among thousands. It startles him to see that the expression on the monkey’s face hasn’t changed, as if death hadn’t really affected it. Were it not for the wound and the blood, you might assume he’s merely sleeping, Niko thinks. Perhaps that’s peculiar to those whom death catches by surprise. They don’t have time to see the end coming to annihilate them and to make the same grimace as those who are aware they’re dying.
61. Niko knows the face characteristic of those who’re dying all too well. He has embodied the warning often enough to take note of the common denominator in the expression of a prey. But he mustn’t let that sort of thinking run away with him.See All Chapters
|Abdourahman A. Waberi||Indiana University Press||ePub|
WAR INTO OVERTIME on the field now. President brought in a lot-lot draftees to replace all the dead. And then Scud 2, it start talking negotiations. The chiefs went quick-quick into town to get armchairs, A/Cs an radios. Ran like rabbits to pick up armchairs before their friends. Chiefs of Scud-there, they so-so hungry they'd eat their rebel boots. President so happy, he decorated the wounded, soldiers without arms, soldiers without legs, children without papa an mama. He accepted wounded rebels in big hospital to make buddy-buddy with second-in-command of Eternal Opponent. So it real peace now. Cept Eternal Opponent left for Paris to take refuge, he said war-there not over, said Scud 2 sold out corrupt. Him, watch out he gonna throw Scud 3 onto the field now.
Hey, that true truth cause ambush start again at Randa, Ambado, As-Dara, an all. So us we stay stuck in military positions at Dikhil, Tadjoura, Obock, an in the Mabla. We defensive forwards to save the sovereignty and gains of the united and indivisible nation, that fat rich language like French head of diplomacy talk. So all that-there, not too bad for us, right? Me, that's how I kept my job. All the guys relax; we have fun after we cried a lot cause of buddies dead on the sideline like Housseini in Adaylou, the one who bought and sold the pink pills. Everybody knows the pills-there come direct from Mogadishu; they love pills there too much so they can keep on with fierce war. Normal, right? But you can't make fun of the other monkey's cunt when your own ass-there naked too, even. Somalians, they in deep shit, but we got our problems too. The whole world saying: Somalians, Africans, all a bunch of savages make civil war all the time. Well, gotta understand us. What you expect when politicians-there they pick up all the pots an chow? When they eat the skin off the nape-a your neck. You pick up rifle, that's all. Us, we don't got comfort, villa, car, pay vacation like French, English, an even Norwegians who're nice cause they give NGO money an keep their trap shut. Me I say if a big white guy he wanna take my place, I give it right away an go screw his wife an daughter. That way it democracy between us. I give my place an he take my place here. Then I take his wife. Tie, ball in midfield. Be serious now and stop that crap about rightsaman, rightsawoman, rightsababies. We got a right to the good life too, don't we? Sick of drinking our own sweat. Draftees wanna admire shooting stars too, cept what they see's tracer bullets singing sweet little songs like this: “C'mere my little honey, come this way, been waiting for you for a long long time.” Draftees, they like that old camel the family gonna kill to eat him cause he's too-too old. The old camel, he say to chief of camp: “I worked for you all my life. I marched, marched, and marched to carry your tent and your merchandise. You got all you needed out of my back, now you wanna eat my meat and bones. After that you still get more out of me cause you'll take my skin an you'll make shoes with it, right?” So there you are, us draftees like ole camel-there cept us, we younger. That's all. Gotta stop bringing tears to my eyes. I close parenthesis.See All Chapters
|Alain Mabanckou||Indiana University Press||ePub|
|Becky Adnot-Haynes||University of North Texas Press|
he announcement about the bathroom is worrisome. Lane had not before considered the logistics of the bathroom, which are: You will poop in a bucket. They are also to pee in a bucket, albeit a separate one that will later be dumped into the river. What will happen to the poop is unclear.
Lane glances toward her daughter, Mandy, whose gaze is resolutely neutral. The trip is only thirty-six hours long; perhaps pooping can be avoided altogether.
At any rate, one must press onward: Lane is here to eat a hallucinogenic cactus and a hallucinogenic cactus she will eat. She turns her attention intently to their drug administrator/camping guide,
Lorenzo, as he explains the sequence of events for the trip, which basically go: hike into canyon, set up camp, sleep. Wake up, hike to special, secret part of canyon, do drugs. Wait for drugs to wear off, hike back, go home. “Light meals will be provided,” he adds. She nods along. Lorenzo is tall and hulking, with a cloud of orange hair and a matching beard, a film of hairy curls on his arms and legs. He looks timeless and mythical, like a Norse god, a leader of men.See All Chapters
|Goodwin, Temari & Hoye (Editors)||Monsoon Books||ePub|
"Kali’s Curse" by Femke Tewari
A romance/erotica short story set in Singapore, first published in "Love and Lust in Singapore" (Monsoon Books, Singapore)
How these bare prison walls numb my senses! How I long to be where I was before, following him into the smells and sounds of Little India, do what I did then, but from closer by, since I now have less to lose. Maybe I would even dare to run the tips of my fingers over that maniacal goddess he wears etched into his arm. But I know it is not to be. So together with my friend Durga, I made other plans for him. Quite different but equally satisfying.
* * *
I was all innocence, or stupidity, rather. It now seems many lives ago, instead of a few years, but I guess that is what Changi Prison does to you. I sat all the way up in the back of a moon-shaped theatre packed with students, by myself of course, fingering one of my piercings, reading a copy of Best of Singapore Erotica in between taking notes in mathematics class. With my looks and luck it was not surprising that in my twenty-two years in this universe, I had never been with a man, but I was getting increasingly curious about what it would be like. The erotica book was quite helpful in that respect … See All Chapters
|Becky Adnot-Haynes||University of North Texas Press||ePub|
There are certain things you keep to yourself. Once, when Mina was ten years old, she went through her older sister’s underwear drawer and took her time putting on all of her sister’s fancy lingerie, padded bras and lacy silk panties. She couldn’t explain it at the time, not even to herself, but she liked the feeling it gave her. It was like trying on a new stage of life, something that is strange and foreign and which excites you in a way that you don’t yet have the vocabulary to express. Human beings, Mina thinks, are endlessly odd.
She recalls the lingerie now, as she stands in front of her bedroom mirror wearing a fake pregnancy belly: the heavy, realistic type meant to startle high school girls into abstinence. This, along with the her proclivity for standing very, very close to the bathroom mirror and digging blackheads out of her chin with her fingernail, are things she would rather her boyfriend, Tom, did not know about. And so when she hears the scrape of his key in the lock—they are house hunting, and he’s here to take her to another showing—she gives herself one last sidelong glance in the mirror, a small chill of excitement pulsing in her veins as she quickly unfastens the metal snaps and stashes the whole thing in the closet, beneath a wad of old sheets.See All Chapters
|Stephen Leather||Monsoon Books Pte. Ltd.||ePub|
INSPECTOR ZHANG AND THE ISLAND OF THE DEAD
“Do you think it will rain again?” asked Sergeant Lee, peering out of the window at the street below and then up at the darkening sky.
“It is the monsoon season so there is a high probability of rain,” said Inspector Zhang. They were in the Major Crimes Division office at the New Bridge Road police headquarters building and they had just received a call to attend a murder scene on Sentosa Island. Sentosa was one of Singapore’s major tourist attractions with long sandy beaches, two golf courses, a number of top hotels and the Universal Studios theme park. There were also several very upmarket housing developments where Singapore’s wealthier residents could enjoy a house with a garden, a rarity in crowded Singapore where most people lived in cramped apartments.
“Shall I bring an umbrella, do you think?” asked Sergeant Lee. She had her hair clipped up at the back and was wearing a pale blue suit.
“Better safe than sorry,” said Inspector Zhang.See All Chapters
|Scott Russell Sanders||Indiana University Press||ePub|
There was an old proverb about never looking a gift horse in the … what? Ear? Nose? Mouth? Phoenix could not recall how it went. Nor did he have any clear notion what a gift horse was. But he knew the proverb had to do with accepting presents humbly, not inquiring too closely into their origins, and that was why it kept springing into his mind. He was content to have Teeg back from her mother’s antique house without demanding to know why she had come. The simple gift of her was enough.
“She has her world, I have mine,” Teeg had explained simply. During the late afternoon on the river that was all the explanation she offered. In the sleepsack that night she was fidgety but silent, and he did not question her. He stroked her timidly, grateful to have her within reach. She kept her own hands fisted tightly against her belly, as if to squeeze the pain into one spot and hold it there.
From the look of her eyes next morning, she had not slept much. As he mouthed the algae-brew that passed for breakfast, he thought of suggesting they vary their diet with some roots and frogs. Fried lichens, maybe. Any bit of nonsense to lift her gloom. He would have tried walking on his hands across the river to please her. There was something pure about her silence, however, as he imagined a field of new-fallen snow would be pure, and he did not trample on it.See All Chapters
|Heather Birrell||Coach House Books||ePub|
A science teacher and former doctor is forced to re-examine the role he played in Ceaușescu’s Romania after a student makes a shocking request.
See All Chapters