998 Slices
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Medium 9781574415384

What Became of What She Had Made

Jessica Hollander University of North Texas Press ePub

What Became of What She Had Made

Lynette hadn’t heard from Christine in six months and three days. There’d been something of an argument, nothing abnormal. Her daughter was unpleasant on the phone, and Lynette questioned her about her life and whether she ever planned to take it seriously. She figured stubbornness had kept her daughter from calling her back; or else the phone buzzed in a purse on a hook in the morgue, and Lynette really was a horrible mother. It would be her fault somehow.

She almost called in a Missing Person. But Olivia, her other daughter, showed her how to check someone’s voice messages if she could break the password. For her passwords, Christine always used the street address from their derelict little split-level on the south side of Ann Arbor, the one where Lynette had spent many good hours teaching Christine in preparation for kindergarten.

Olivia brought Lynette a vodka and cranberry and one for herself. They sat on Olivia’s pink floral sofa, listening to Christine’s messages on speaker phone while Olivia’s boy Henry ran plastic farm animals violently into each other. Wet explosions punctuated Christine’s messages, which included the latest hysteria from Lynette, “Hello? Hello? Are you alive, this is your MOTHER,” an inquiry about a puppy Christine had apparently found and postered for in her neighborhood, and a litany from a man comparing Christine’s body parts to various food and drink: her mouth was orange soda. Her calf was a smooth, curved eggplant.

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Medium 9780253008183

3 Townie

Jason L Brown Quarry Books ePub

Roderic Crooks

AT THE DEADWOOD INN, THE WOMAN on the bar stool to my right whistles when I tell her I’m from New York City, then starts in on a long, rambling spiel about the five seasons of Iowa that leaves me unclear as to what constitutes the extra season. A football game is playing on a set above rows of multi-colored bottles lit from underneath, but this woman cannot keep her eyes off of me. She says, “So you visiting then?” She points her drunk, glassy eyes at me while the guy at the seat on my left mumbles about the ineptitude of whatever franchise is on the television. I can’t tell which side is ours or if they are winning.

I tell her that I live here now, that I’ve taken a job in town and wait for her to turn her attention back to the game, or to the man on my left, or anywhere but at me. She keeps her chin turned up and her gaze locked, so I add, “At the university museum.” I hope this helpful detail will satisfy her curiosity and send her back to whatever she was doing before she told me I didn’t look local.

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Medium 9781574412994

Sarah’s Revolution

Jane Roberts Wood University of North Texas Press PDF

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

Sarah’s Revolution

Sarah emptied the pan under the kitchen sink and replaced it.

Eddie was gone for good. So was her money. And her house was falling down. The foundation needed repairs. One could drop a marble on the floor of any room of the house, and it would roll. The roof leaked. There were leaks everywhere. A pipe under the kitchen sink dripped. Water sometimes stood around one of the commodes upstairs. The faucets dripped.

Cold air streamed through the window frames. The house needed paint, inside and out. And the rain had gone on for days. Not a strong hardy downpour that came and left a blue sky. Rather, there had been clouds and cold and drizzle. With weather like this, there was nothing to do but stay inside and get something accomplished.

Pulling open a kitchen drawer, Sarah scrambled around among old grocery receipts, pens without ink, erasers that smudged, broken Crayolas, shoelaces and old keys until she found a small tablet and a pen that worked. She walked through the dining room and, crossing the wide entrance hall, she stepped down into the living room. She sat in a chair by the window to make a list of needed repairs and the cost of each. The house was insured for two hundred thousand dollars. She doubted that it was worth that much. But the property was valuable.

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Medium 9780060727864

Jim Baker’s Bluejay

Twain, Mark HarperCollins ePub (DRM)

[from A Tramp Abroad.]

Animals talk to each other, of course. There can be no question about that; but I suppose there are very few people who can understand them. I never knew but one man who could. I knew he could, however, because he told me so himself. He was a middle-aged, simple-hearted miner who had lived in a lonely corner of California, among the woods and mountains, a good many years, and had studied the ways of his only neighbors, the beasts and the birds, until he believed he could accurately translate any remark which they made. This was Jim Baker. According to Jim Baker, some animals have only a limited education, and use only very simple words, and scarcely ever a comparison or a flowery figure; whereas, certain other animals have a large vocabulary, a fine command of language and a ready and fluent delivery; consequently these latter talk a great deal; they like it; they are conscious of their talent, and they enjoy “showing off.” Baker said, that after long and careful observation, he had come to the conclusion that the bluejays were the best talkers he had found among birds and beasts. Said he:

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Medium 9781574415384


Jessica Hollander University of North Texas Press ePub


Before the trip to Grandma’s, I emptied my closet and cut the buttons from my clothes. I stuffed them in my pockets and ran my hands through the cold plastic discs the whole way to Lansing.

Mom said, “Be nice.” She had bologna and Miracle Whip and a tiny tin of caviar in the cooler between us. She had Wonder Bread and china cups in a plastic grocery bag. “I don’t want any observations from you. She doesn’t need to hear it.”

Grandma’s house smelled like lemon cleaner and wet Band-Aids. She had jars of buttons around her living room: a jar of blue, a jar of green, a jar of red. On her coffee table with the clawed feet: a half jar of pink. On her stained-black fireplace: a quarter jar of gray. Tubes trailed from Grandma’s nose and disappeared behind a cushion. She wore a smooth yellow smock. Her couch was red and black flowers. When Mom spoke, Grandma looked at the jar on the coffee table.

“With Joel’s promotion they gave him a window. So there’s the real world while he works and he’s a little closer.” Mom pulled at some threads on her armchair. She had three rings with diamonds on her fingers. She looked at me, sitting on the floor by the coffee table with my coat still on. “And Celia’s become a brat. She takes socks from our dresser and makes sock balls with more than two socks, stretching as many as she can until they’re all misshapen.”

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Medium 9780253000125

Part I - Garage Sales

Robin Hemley Indiana University Press ePub













Always give the customer more than you promise.


You could have paved your driveway with Willy's voice, which was smoother than dirt, but not as even as asphalt. The gravel in it made him sound naturally surly, even when he said hello.

Lois did her best to ignore him. After all, he was her ex-husband. But here they were, rocking like good friends on the porch swing, drinking whiskey out of paper cups, the dogs resting at their feet. Willy drank more than his share while Lois stared into the grayness of the dirt road in front of their yard.

In the field across the road, a ruby light blinked on top of the radio tower, and somewhere overhead she could hear the buzzing of a small plane. Her head felt soggy with liquor. Her thoughts wouldn't focus, but banged away at her forehead like the bugs batting the screen door. She could hardly pay attention to what Willy said.

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Medium 9780253010476

Chapter 29 Eighteenth Year

William Williams Indiana University Press ePub

Soon after the commencement of this year and about 9 oclock in the evening we heard several heavy guns fire in the offing. Norman ran up the hill but could percieve no flashes. This put us all on the wonder, but how to account for It we knew not. But Old Nunez observed that he supposed it might be Guardacostas, saying the Spaniards had several out to prevent contraband trade since the late Peace. “Peace,” cried I, “that has been for many years unless there has been a fresh war.” Upon this he told us that they had but just then concluded a peace with the English, for there had been another war since that he and I were concerned in—all which we knew no more of than a new born infant.1

On the 17th day of July as our people were busy making torches about 10 in the forenoon all at once we heard a Gun fired as from some Vessel nigh in shore. This was a novelty indeed, and what to think or how to act we could not tell. Away ran Harry and came down with the news, saying there was a fine Ship right off with a flag out not far from the Long Key. “What, what!” said Bell. “Come away, now, Mr. Penrose,” he cried, “let us see!”

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Medium 9781574415384

Blooms Lined Up like This

Jessica Hollander University of North Texas Press ePub

Blooms Lined Up Like This

Mid-March—that wet trampled month, time of rashes and sopping lawns and garden gloves changed constantly—the postcard arrived. Discovered by my thirteen-year-old son Mason back from an egg run to the corner store; he came into the kitchen heralding our mail piece by piece—Junk! Junk!—saving the postcard for last.

“Dear Frank, this is important,” Mason read and then silently read the rest. The postcard pictured a lighthouse, so probably from my ex-mother-in-law’s collection. But why addressed to my husband?

“If it’s bad news, read it quickly,” Frank said, retrieving Mason’s backpack thrown by the door.

“Please stuff the postcard in the garbage disposal,” I said. At our oak table thick as a butcher’s block, I promised my day to a piece of paper. Zodiac Flower Article. Review Season’s Amaryllis. I wrote monthly for The Floriographer, a comprehensive flower magazine I’d founded and then a year ago sold, though it had been much longer since I’d filled the house with fresh-cut flowers. I once fully supported the effort for true good moods; there remained vases in each room, in every cranny, empty. To write my articles these days I took my laptop to the community garden and on a bench pretended. New blooms! Fragrant sweet pea! Knock you out tulips!

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Medium 9781942496656

Chapter 18

Charlotte Jones Solution Tree Press ePub

Bayo was everyone’s favorite person in the Evron. In every sense of the word, she was larger than life. She waddled around the kitchens with her grey-streaked, curly blond hair bobbing up and down, and she bossed everyone around with her big, booming voice. Her happy laugh seemed to shake the rooms as much as it did her large, round belly. Even though she had a tongue sharper than a dagger and was as mean as a hornet when someone ruined one of her delicious dishes, she was the most beloved chef in the kitchens.

Above all else, Bayo loved to cook and have people enjoy her food. When a far-too-skinny, miserable-looking Sunbursti was dragged into her kitchens, then, she nearly threw a fit.

“What is he doing here?” she shouted at the two Iniskroun.

“He is serving punishment for his crime,” one said apprehensively. Everyone knew about Bayo’s temper.

“He does not need to be serving it in my kitchens! Drag him off to the gallows if he needs to be punished, but don’t leave him here!”

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Medium 9781574416473

My Doppelganger's Arms

Polly Buckingham University of North Texas Press ePub

When I first saw her, she was wearing a long-sleeved, white T-shirt and gray men's cotton pants rolled up almost to her knees. She was carrying a white Styrofoam cup with a lid and a straw as she walked along the beach. I noticed her from far off because she looked so aimless, not like someone walking briskly down the beach, straight any way you look at it. She waded into the water as the tide pulled in over the bottoms of her pants. I thought how odd to roll one's pants up and still not move away when the water washes over them.

I watched the woman from inside a driftwood hut built up against the dune. She was down the beach and to my left. The knots in the driftwood looked like eyes. The pieces, crossing one another, formed shapes that appeared to be more than one thing at the same time. I saw a bird that could also be a woman, and two birds that were one. There was a small fire ring, a table made of a thick stump and a board flaked with red paint, and an empty wine bottle. There was just room enough for one person only to curl up and sleep.

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Medium 9780253008183

6 Circling in the Air

Jason L Brown Quarry Books ePub

David Driscoll

TODAY I WATCH WHITEY-TIGHTEY LINE. Whitey-Tightey Line is not real name, just name we use at factory. Real name is White Cotton Briefs. I am Inspector Number Seven. I work here long time. Too long, maybe, but this job is not so bad. I sit on stool over conveyor and watch for anomaly. I use Special Technique. Special Technique is pick spot on floor or paint chip on side of conveyor and spread out vision so it is big, big—like looking down from mountain top. In this way I see underwear three at a time, like looking at photo. Special Technique is very good for concentration, and sometimes I go very deep. Sometimes it looks like underwear is glowing, and sometimes I think threads are made of light. Sometimes vision drop away completely so there is no seeing and no hearing. This is very mystical state. I can always spot anomaly, though. Like now.

I press red button and conveyor stops, use Trigger Fingers to pick up whitey tightey from conveyor and transfer to Anomaly Bin. Trigger Fingers is metal pole with pinchers on end. Very handy for moving anomaly. Very easy on back. This anomaly is label sewed to front panel. This is functional anomaly. Functional anomaly means underwear still work fine but still is anomaly. If someone opens three pack of White Cotton Briefs in Boca Raton or Minneapolis and sees label sewed to front panel they will not like this. They will go back to store and ask for refund. They will see sticker says Inspected by Number Seven and shake their heads. I do not think they will call factory to complain but this is not the point.

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Medium 9789351380511


A.J. Sebastian SDB Laxmi Publications PDF


Exploitation of Women in

Vijay Tendulkar’s Kamala

2.1  Introduction

Though Vijay Tendulkar (1928-2008) wrote in Marathi, his plays have been translated into English and other languages, and have been performed the world over. Known also as a social activist, he has dwelt on social themes. The present study is on Kamala, a victim of sexual exploitation.

The story is based on investigation into flesh trade by Indian Express correspondent

Ashwini Sarin in 1981. His extensive research led to his purchasing a woman named

Kamala from a village in M.P. for ` 2,300/-. He then wrote a series of articles which were published in the issue of 27th April, 1981 entitled “Buying girls from circuit house.”

It read: “Yesterday, I bought a short-statured skinny woman belonging to a village near

Shivapuri in Madhya Pradesh for ` 2,300/-. Even I find it hard to believe that I have returned to the Capital this morning buying this middle aged woman for half the price one pays for a buffalo in Punjab” (Sarin, Ashwini. http://www.indiankanoon.org).

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Medium 9780253019028


IU Press Journals Indiana University Press ePub

translated from French and introduced by Sarah Jessica Johnson

LITTLE ENOUGH IS known about Louis-Armand Garreau. His fictions tell us that he was an anti-slavery Frenchman and intimate examiner of antebellum Louisiana. His patchy biography reveals a man whose political writings necessitated a life of on and off exile from France. By the 1830s, Louisiana was a known and fairly stable haven for French and francophone refugees of many backgrounds; political outcasts were common contributors to the multilingual literary world of the newly American state. Garreau’s short story, “Bras-Coupé,” translated here for the first time into English, is a graphic and nuanced depiction of plantation slavery in New Orleans, capturing the multi-ethnic, multilingual, immigrant-saturated city and its environs.

Published in France in 1856, “Bras-Coupé” retells a popular local legend based on actual events of the 1830s: Then, a slave named Squire escaped from a plantation and lost an arm in the process. He continued to evade the police in a standoff that lasted years. Quickly dubbed “le Bras-Coupé” or “The Severed Arm,” Squire and his supposed “encampment of outlaw negroes near the city” resisted capture for enough time to reanimate intense local fears of slave revolt. Additionally—and importantly for this literary history—the continuous newspaper reporting of the prolonged stalemate built up a legend that would go on to be retold by late-nineteenth century authors George Washington Cable and Lafcadio Hearn. The former would feature Bras-Coupé’s story in two chapters of his magnum opus The Grandissimes: A Tale of Creole Life (1880), while the latter would respond to Cable in his newspaper column with a report meant to set the historical record straight, titled “The Original Bras Coupe” (1880).

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Medium 9781771870764


Forrie, Allan Thistledown Press ePub
“The One Currach Returning Alone” is the story of one year spent on a small island off the West coast of Ireland, where Theresa Kishkan befriended the locals, wrote poetry, and fell in love with a fisherman.
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Medium 9780253012098


S. A. An-sky Indiana University Press ePub

EIZERMAN LEFT KAPLUNERS home completely disheartened. He’d expected so much from the first lesson—and had gotten so little from it! He’d hoped the teacher would immediately reveal to him the source of “secular wisdom”; instead, he’d been handed a children’s story to read, had lingered on the pronunciation of individual letters as if that were important, and had been compelled to write out numbers for no purpose. . . . In addition, he’d been forbidden to utter one word of Yiddish.

In the gloomiest mood, his eyes downcast, Eizerman made his way back to the Ore Miklet. He walked along the same streets that he’d traversed earlier that day when he was feeling so inspired by bright hopes and dreams—but these streets now seemed entirely different to him, foreign and gloomy. . . .

When Eizerman returned to the Ore Miklet, the “conspirators” had managed to finish debating their plan for the “betrothal.” It was decided to make all the arrangements for the next day and to involve one more of their comrades in this affair, Geverman, who was considered a steadfast fellow. For some reason, Eizerman’s return cheered everyone up.

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