998 Chapters
  Title Author Publisher Format Buy Remix
Medium 9781552452585


Heather Birrell Coach House Books ePub


I DIDN'T REALLY MEAN TO drop out of school. When I started at the university I thought learning how to name and explain things might bring me purpose, lucidity. I attended lectures and turned in my papers on time. I stood dead in the centre of the swirl and storm of theory. I applied myself. But then I started going to the student-operated pub between, and sometimes during, classes. The pub was difficult to find; it was located in a catacomb next to the cafeteria, and if a person wasnt careful she could end up in the boiler room or the yearbook office. Still, it was worth it once I arrived. I spent whole days sitting in one of the vinyl chairs, their shiny purple backs stapled like patchwork beetles. I went into the pub with every intention of leaving, my time parcelled out efficiently, a half-pint of beer resting modestly on the rickety wooden table in front of me. But when the time came for me to get up and walk the short distance up the stairs, out the door and across the quadrangle, I stayed sitting, less paralyzed than somehow anchored to my surroundings. And then it always seemed too late. Too late to do things properly. Too late to do anything but wait for the next song to come on the radio. Sometimes a voice less disapproving than bewildered would intrude on my whiling away of the hours. What are you doing here, it would ask, then wait patiently. Im biding my time, Id reply softly, humbly, Im biding my time.

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Medium 9781942496656

Chapter 36

Charlotte Jones Solution Tree Press ePub

Kaelo glanced at his watch. The Iniskroun were late; Captain de Solis should have arrived. His relatives were watching him, murmuring among themselves. Even after having sworn loyalty to him, even after having planned this for seven years, they still did not trust him. It was infuriating.

Before he could consider the matter any further, a sharp knock struck against the thick wooden door guarding the entrance. Everyone in the garden froze. Kaelo shot a questioning look at General Shevo. The Iniskroun were supposed to knock four times.

Quickly, he turned to his sister. “Answer,” he hissed softly. She nodded and slowly stood, her face pale.

“Yes?” she said loudly.

There were footsteps, too many. Heels clicked against the cobblestone on the other side of the wall. Shevo glanced at Kaelo. This was not good.

“Open this door.” The voice on the other side was gruff, firm. It was not one of the Iniskroun.

Kaelo clenched his jaw.

“Under whose authority?” his sister said.

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Medium 9781927068151

A Wonderful Holiday

Hayes, Derek Thistledown Press ePub


RUSSELL LAY IN BED, STILL WEARING HIS light-blue pyjamas. He was watching Magnum P.I. T.C.’s helicopter had a bullet hole and Magnum was explaining to T.C. that he’d compensate him for the damage.

A solitary model airplane, a Sopwith Camel, hung from the ceiling of his room. This was a vestige of his childhood. He had cleared out all the other silly remnants two years before. The Sopwith Camel had been in such pristine condition that he couldn’t take it down. Were he to get a girlfriend — this winter, he hoped — he’d be sure to trash it. With his computer and printer, television and stereo system set up along the north wall, and with a proper queen-sized bed, and with beige paint covering the old wallpaper (which had been spotted with lizards), his life now was almost complete. He just had to find a girl. He would move all of his belongings into a two-bedroom condominium when they got married. He’d be nicer to Mom then. He’d even do the dishes here more often if he weren’t living at home, though on second thought, he’d probably have enough chores of his own to do. The trip he felt obliged to go on was getting in the way of all of his plans. He’d thought of nothing else for a while now.

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Medium 9781574412406

10. Six Different Ways to Die in the Windy City!

Aimee La Brie University of North Texas Press PDF

S i x D i f f e re n t Wa y s t o D i e i n t h e Wi n d y C i t y !


The elevator is about the size of three upright coffins. When the mail guy leans over to hit his floor (the one right below

Betsy’s of course), he says, Excuse me, and Betsy presses her back against the wall. The closed elevator doors reflecting their figures make them look fuzzy and not all there.

This is the shape she remembers when he bursts through the glass doors of her office, holding a machine gun. He begins shooting. Rat-a-tat-tat. First, Maude the receptionist gets it in the back and slumps forward on the electric typewriter she uses when she’s typing up envelope addresses.

Betsy ducks behind her desk. He’s not looking for her. He might even let her live because of the intimate space they shared in the elevator.

His brown shoes move back and forth under the edge of her desk.

The gunfire is so fast that no one really has time to scream or scatter. His feet pivot. More rat-a-tat-tat. Someone says, Oh! The fire alarm goes off and the shrill sound almost covers the noise of the shooting. His feet vanish from view.

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Medium 9780253002365

Chapter Eight

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.

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Medium 9780253220042

7. Honor

Elsa Marston Indiana University Press ePub



Yasmine speaks …

I was not exactly thrilled when the biology teacher teamed me up with Wafa Ar-Rahman. We’d be working in pairs, she said, when we started cutting things up—a learning experience I really did not look forward to one bit. And now I had to do it with Wafa. Not that she was obnoxious or stupid, but she was new in school, and so conservative and quiet and shy that she really sort of stuck out.

When I got home, I told my mother that my biology partner would be this girl Wafa, whom I could hardly even see, she was so covered up by her hijab. “She wears her head scarf over her eyebrows, and she doesn’t say a thing. She’ll be so boring, Mum,” I moaned. “I’ll hate that class.”

But my mother was the wrong person to complain to. She was a hard-hitting investigative journalist, and she saw opportunities for social change and noble struggle in practically everything. She was so good at her job, in fact, that she’d won a special fellowship to study in London the previous year, and we’d all spent six glorious months there.

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Medium 9780253010476

Chapter 41 Twenty Eighth Year

William Williams Indiana University Press ePub

We had not seen one sail for a long time, but about August as Job was on the Hill he discovered a fleet of above twenty vessels all Standing to the Southward. I got the glass, but they were So far out that I could not make much of them and we Lost sight of them towards Evening….

“Being Mate of a large Brigg, one Captain Smith Commander, and laying at the Havannah anno 1776, It chanced that we lay nigh to a Spanish Sloop late From the Main, and as the mate of her happened to Get a little acquainted with me by my speaking the Spanish tongue, He on a day asked me on board to Spend an hour or two, that he had something to shew me. According, the next day being Sunday and He Only being on board except an Old Negro fellow, I went on board to have a little chatt with him.

“We had not been long together before he unlocked a Ceder Chest and got out a bundle of old Papers and Bid me look at them, saying they were English. After I had looked over a few leaves I asked him how it came into his hands. He told me he had it from two Indians who spoke good English, and that one of them Told him in Spanish it was wrote by his Father Who had lived and died there, and that they would ‘Give me money enough if I would sware to give it Into the hands of some good English man As soon as I could after we had took in what water we wanted. They brought me above fifty Pieces of Eight, And I swore by the Holy Cross to deliver the Papers. Now as you are the first English man I have met with, If you will take it in charge You shall have It. Otherwise I shall take it on shore and deliver it to some other, and if not, to the Governor.’

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Medium 9789814423335

You Get What You Pay For

Richard Lord Monsoon Books Pte. Ltd. ePub
"You Get What You Pay For" by Elka Ray 

A short crime fiction story set in Thailand, first published in "Crime Scene Asia, Vol.1" (Monsoon Books, Singapore)

Nobody in their right mind would fly all the way to Thailand only to shop in Prada, but that’s exactly what Candice is doing. She could buy the same stuff back home for less money, since imported luxury goods are heavily taxed here. But, of course, she’s not looking at the price tags. I’m sitting in Starbucks waiting for her, and we’ve been in this mall for more than three hours already. It’s a high-end place, the customers falling into two categories: bewildered-looking tourists in cheap, un-ironed clothes and immaculately turned-out Thai ladies who lunch, all of whom seem to be toting small dogs and five-thousand-dollar handbags. A few of these ladies’ husbands are sitting near me in Starbucks, killing time on their mobiles and iPads. I see the guy at the next table check his Rolex and frown. Moments later, his perfectly-coiffed wife appears, trailing two giant Hermes bags. I check my own watch. Where the hell is Candice? See All Chapters
Medium 9781574415650

Thank you for the ________

Becky Adnot-Haynes University of North Texas Press ePub

My husband and I are eating takeout spaghetti and meatballs in a motel because our house has bedbugs. At one point we didn’t have them and then we did, finding them moving in their slow buzz on the mattress seams and headboard and behind the electrical switch-plate by my nightstand. My husband wanted to stay with friends, but I’m not the type of person who likes to see whether you eat poached eggs or Grape-Nuts for breakfast.

My husband booked the motel. According to him it’s nice enough, which means it’s gross. There was a long dark hair on one of the towels when we arrived and the whole place seems kind of damp, like Spanish moss. The little fridge in the kitchenette works only for keeping beers sort of cold, which we found out after we bought milk and deli meat. The only good thing about the motel is that it has cable. We spend a lot of nights eating cheap Italian food from Paliani’s and watching whatever’s on: sitcoms, cartoons, cooking shows, infomercials, shows about the lives of famous people’s unfamous spouses, shows about people who want to be magicians, shows about badly dressed people who are ambushed into buying new wardrobes. Our favorite is this show about people who have really weird and specific addictions, like a woman who eats baby powder or a guy who spends every night patrolling the streets for dead raccoons and possums to bury.

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Medium 9781574413311


Peter Brown University of North Texas Press ePub

The Dancer

Little Jimmy surveyed the mirrors on the ceiling, the spotlights above the runway, the horseshoe shape of the bar. Everything was cleaner and brighter than he imagined. A semicircle of tiny tables, each set with three chairs, zigzagged all the way around the room. He put his arms behind his head and stretched his long legs out between his two extra chairs. When the waitress passed, he pulled his feet in and like a schoolboy raised his hand. He ordered a margarita, then loosened his collar. Little Jimmy was six-four, and though this had been true five years already, it seemed his very bones were a lie. He had been five-three until his last semester of high school, when he was eighteen, so the growth had come too late. Despite his outsized limbs and hands and head and feet, he was still Little Jimmy Rose in his neighborhood in Stapleton, in his mother’s kitchen, and in his heart and soul. He avoided looking up at the mirrors, to see how he dwarfed his table.

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Medium 9780253016881

Raymond Snow

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

Raymond Snow

I was wearing mittens because the warehouse was cold as hell so maybe I didn’t have as good a grip on the forklift’s wheel as I thought I did when I slipped my blades into the skip, and somebody must have got the load off-center because when I lifted, the forks hadn’t gone all the way in, and the TVs—the flat screens, plasmas break if you just fart in their general direction—sort of slouched on the pallet at about three feet up. So I sped up to try to force the fork all the way in. That’s when I kinda tossed ’em into the shelving unit that tipped and hit another shelving unit that tipped too, but luckily there was a wall next, so it wasn’t nearly as bad as it could have been.

Well, that’s what they have insurance for.

Foreman, that was Wally, kept screaming words like stupid and drunk and shit like that but he got quiet when Mr. Hansen pulled up to the overhead door in that big turd-brown 1980s Cadillac because he—I mean Wally—was starting to remember that there was two joints smoked out in his car before the shift started and I’d only smoked one though I’d paid for two, though he did let me have a couple of chugs from the bottle of Beam he keeps under the front seat so it sort of evens out maybe. Once they got to asking questions they might want to know if any of that Schedule 20 stainless pipe that was short on the last inventory and that Mr. Hansen wouldn’t stop bitching about was maybe under a tarp back of somebody’s garage and I don’t have a garage.

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Medium 9780253018175

The Year of the Great Forgetting

B.J. Hollars Break Away Book Club Edition ePub


The fever strikes, and we, too, are struck by it, my wife and I suddenly jarred awake by the same cold sweat that’s worked into Henry’s small frame. In his eighteen months (541 days), this is the first of these sweats, and therefore the scariest. Mainly because it is without cause, an unexpected overture to an illness we can’t yet see.

All of this takes place a thousand or so miles from our home, in a cabin in the woods in the Poconos. We’d found ourselves there at my mother’s suggestion. “A nice halfway point,” she’d argued, “so we can spend a little quality time together.” I agreed to the trip, not because the Poconos were a halfway point by any measure, but because I’d recently endured an existential crisis brought on by the purchase of a minivan, and a road trip, I figured, might help me acclimate to my new life in the slow lane.

Once the decision was made, I immediately began poring over maps, a maniacal Magellan hell-bent on arranging a 2,800-mile road trip from Wisconsin to the east coast. As a result of my overzealousness, what began as a three-night stay in the Poconos quickly morphed into what we’d later call a “cross-your-legs-because-I’m-not-pulling-over” death march, complete with stops in Hartford, Salem, and Niagara Falls. We had no vested interest in any of these places, but I was lured by the open road.

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Medium 9780253007919

Blue White Red

Alain Mabanckou Indiana University Press ePub
Medium 9780253016881

Biddlebaum Cowley Reefy & Swift LLP

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



Pursuant to Title 17 of the United States Code

City Manager

13 Spalding Street

Winesburg, Indiana 46712

Dear Sir or Madam:

This law firm represents the Town of Winesburg (Ohio). If you are represented by legal counsel, please direct this letter to your attorney immediately and have your attorney notify us of such representation.

It has been brought to our attention that your town, Winesburg (Indiana), has been using the Winesburg trademark in association with the marketing or sale of your products and services, namely, those of meditative introspection, synthetic emotional effects, general literary malaise, and cathartic artistic performances including but not limited to confessions, covetings, secrets-keeping, and the wholesale packaging and propagation of spent signature tears. It is possible that you were unaware of this conflict, so we believe that it is in our mutual interest to bring this matter to your attention.

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Medium 9780060727864

A True Story

Twain, Mark HarperCollins ePub (DRM)

[Repeated Word for Word as I Heard It.]

It was summer-time, and twilight. We were sitting on the porch of the farmhouse, on the summit of the hill, and “Aunt Rachel” was sitting respectfully below our level, on the steps—for she was our servant, and colored. She was of mighty frame and stature; she was sixty years old, but her eye was undimmed and her strength unabated. She was a cheerful, hearty soul, and it was no more trouble for her to laugh than it is for a bird to sing. She was under fire now, as usual when the day was done. That is to say, she was being chaffed without mercy, and was enjoying it. She would let off peal after peal of laughter, and then sit with her face in her hands and shake with throes of enjoyment which she could no longer get breath enough to express. At such a moment as this a thought occurred to me, and I said:

“Aunt Rachel, how is it that you’ve lived sixty years and never had any trouble?”

She stopped quaking. She paused, and there was a moment of silence. She turned her face over her shoulder toward me, and said, without even a smile in her voice:

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