741 Chapters
Medium 9780253002365

Chapter Two

Gregory Schwipps Indiana University Press ePub

Ollie drove to the hardware store in Logjam on Saturday morning because all but one lightbulb in the trailer had burned out. What were the odds of such a thing? Only the light in the hallway still worked. He could see into the bathroom with its glow, but the bedroom and kitchen were secured in darkness. He had to use the TV to illuminate the living room. Coming in late last night, still drunk and tired, he’d pretty much fallen over in every room as he made his way back to bed. He could no longer see what in the hell he was doing.

The bell hanging from the door jangled when he walked in and the air conditioning was already on. He walked across a concrete floor painted red and the entire store smelled pleasantly of metal tools and rubber tires. He felt pretty good this morning. His mouth stunk and he was thirsty, but really he felt pretty good. It was early enough that he could still do something with the day once he got this one errand run. Then he remembered that Coondog wanted him to come over in the afternoon to make final adjustments to the demo car before that night.

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Medium 9781574412789

Chapter Fifteen

Jane Roberts Wood University of North Texas Press PDF

Chapter Fifteen

• 1

A

ll week the town of Cold Springs has been breathless with anticipation. The war in Europe will soon be over. It’s just a matter of time now. Days, maybe. Certain their sons will be coming home from Europe (at least for a long leave), farmers cheerfully work sunup to sundown to get the cotton thinned, the beans planted, and mothers work feverishly, turning a garage or a sewing room or a storage room into an extra bedroom. “With all he’s been through, he’s a man now. He’ll need a room of his own,” they say.

At Chic-les-Dolls, young wives frown into mirrors. “Do you think he would like my hair short? It was longer than this when he left.

It was way below my shoulders.” Then, made reckless by longing,

“Cut it!” they say. Small children, reminded to look at old photographs, ask, “Is that my daddy?” and, incredulously, “Is that baby me? That little baby he’s holding? Is that me?” So many changes await the return of the Cold Springs soldiers.

The Texas Flier is on its way back home, its passenger cars filled with children running up and down the aisles, babies crying and mothers consoling them and, here and there, a handful of soldiers, sailors and marines scattered through the coaches. The civilians look at the men in uniforms with awe and gratitude, wondering what to say, what to ask, what they can do for men who have given so much, been through so much.

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Medium 9780253010476

Chapter 40 Twenty Seventh Year

William Williams Indiana University Press ePub

July 21. I had a Son Born and we carried him into the Cave to my Father And Mother. My Father would have the Child in his lap And asked me What name we intended for it. I said he Should call it what he liked best, but that I should like To have him named Lewellin if he pleased. “Call him so,” Said he, “Son, but yet I think one is enough of the Name Unless more fortunate in regard to his passage through this Vale of Tears.”

About the middle of September as My Uncle and I were Out in the Bay fishing Two Ships hove in sight in the East Quarter. But as my Father was now become quite past all his Curiosity or care for such things we let them pass to the Southward without stirring from our business or giving our selves Any concern about them, but only told him of them when we Got home. “I dont think, Owen,” said he, “that I shall ever See another Sail with my Eyes Unless it should happen that I may be carried up to the Hill by some of you should another Appear before I die. And, Indeed, Owen,” said he, “I cannot think the day of my death very far off if any stress may be put on Dreams.

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Medium 9780253006837

33: Awaleh

Abdourahman A. Waberi Indiana University Press ePub

33

AWALEH

WHAT CAN ONE SAY about the multitude of djinns that surround us throughout our lives, of the band of frowning demons with heavily wrinkled brows who keep watch on our slightest feelings and impulses, and the trolls throwing us into the depths of disgrace at the first mistake? What can one say about those invisible beings who have one foot in the realm of the visible? What can we make of those nymphs who set monstrous traps for us, capitalizing on our little weaknesses, our occasional blindness; they lure us with fantasies like bathing the body of our lovers in the reflections of the moon, probing everywhere and seeking what can be said in what is impossible to say. How can we avoid awakening the spirits who hibernate in the bottom of our own darkness? Man is a wheezing, crotchety mollusk, dragging himself along on the thread of his fate. He dreams his life on a large scale but that can't be. He is there, terribly anxious; daily effort has chipped away at him, and he has settled into a convenient silence. The worst is yet to come. If happiness existed in this world here below, it would take the shape of a fountain of milk, the Ancients thought. God would be maternal, would breast-feed the little birds, the little refugees, the malnourished, the orphans, everything life drops and abandons by the roadside. As I think of Him, I immediately open myself to Him, to pray serenely. To chant, with my eyes closed in ecstasy, the ninety-nine names of the very holy Prophet. That is how I regain peace of mind and body.

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Medium 9781574412994

Clovis

Jane Roberts Wood University of North Texas Press PDF

169

Part 4: 1980 • The Murder�

Clovis

When the women walk into the Coffee Cup the next morning, Sheriff Dallas has just finished his breakfast. Sarah raises her eyebrows. Isabel frowns.

“What?” Gaynor says. Then, “What would the Texas women be telling each other with their facial smoke signals?”

“That’s Rock Dallas in the white Stetson. He’s pretending to be a real sheriff,” Sarah says. “We’ve known him all our lives.

We went to school with him.”

“Rock Dallas?” Gaynor said. “That’s not his name. It can’t be his name!”

“His first name is Oliver. Oliver Dallas. But in high school, his nickname was Rock. It stuck.”

Now the sheriff is meandering toward their table, his course indirect. But the goal is clear. He has them in his sight. He stops to speak to Loretta Davis, the blue-eyed, gray-headed manager of the Coffee Cup. Obviously in a hurry, Loretta nods briskly and hurries off to clear the table the sheriff has just left.

Isabel nods toward Loretta. “She was in our class in high school. Her gray hair is pretty, isn’t it? I’ve been thinking about letting my gray show.”

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