993 Slices
Medium 9781771870689


McLellan, Don Thistledown Press ePub


JUST AFTER DUSK, A BANK OF FOG sifting into the channel, the captain of the freighter appeared on the bridge.

“Into the lifeboats!” he said. “Quick — while we still have this cover!”

On shore, before pushing off, one of the crewmen told the men and women left shivering on the beach, “We have to clear Customs. Someone will return for you in a smaller vessel. Stay out of sight.”

Members of the panel looking into the deaths of undocumented workers mumbled, nodded, scribbled notes, sipped water. Translator Diane Ng dropped into her seat beside the detainee Ling Wa. The official leading the inquiry said, “What happened next?”

Ms. Ng addressed the four impassive mandarins. “They were cold and hungry. It was too wet for a fire. Some of the men went looking for shelter. They didn’t realize it was an uninhabited island.”

One of the panelists asked, “Are any of these men here today?”

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Medium 9780253006653


Gilbert Gatore Indiana University Press ePub

214. Reduced to the most extreme acquiescence, Niko still managed to preserve one uncontrollable part of himself. In his nook, everything he was except for his physical body was blooming.

215. Far from this resilient bit of ground, where darkness covered him, Niko stared at the three people who arrived at the cave’s entrance one at a time, saw the ragged mummy, and, shrieking loudly, turned away from it.

216. The first one was Uwitonze, his now aged schoolteacher. Obviously spent, stooped over his cane, he’d waited to raise his head until he was right in front of the cave. Then when his eyes crossed the dark eyes of the monkey’s corpse, he wielded his cane as if to defend himself against the specter. It was the middle of the day and, sweating as much from the effort as from fear, he withdrew without lowering his cane, muttering something at the threat. Once he’d gained a little distance, he knelt down, undoubtedly to ask forgiveness for almost having blasphemed by crossing the entrance.

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Medium 9780253329561

Chapter Seventeen

Scott Russell Sanders Indiana University Press ePub

During most of that first week after the landing at Whale’s Mouth Bay it rained. The meadow squished underfoot as the colonists went about erecting domes and laying pathways of glass. The needles of spruce and hemlock, glistening with rain, looked like fine green jets squirting from branches. Grass stems bent under the weight of water. Marie had to cover her garden with polyfilm to keep it from turning into a quagmire. Coyt grumbled because unbroken clouds reduced the power from his photoelectric cells. There was methane enough from the seaweed digester, however, and enough hydrogen from the vats of blue-green algae to fuel stoves and generators, so the colony enjoyed electricity and warm food.

Rain pipped the surface of the fishpools, which were stocked with fingerlings of bluegill and rainbow trout and bullhead catfish, all carefully smuggled from Oregon City. The smuggled crayfish had died in their barrels, so Josh and Jurgen went off hunting some wild ones. Rain pattered on the greenhouse, where Phoenix helped sow vegetables. Teeg was delighted to see him poking his fingers into the sterilized dirt.

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Medium 9781771870641


Hobsbawn-Smith, dee Thistledown Press ePub


I WAS CUTTING BACK THE SALAL along the driveway when the old VW made the turn off Black Creek Road. The young woman was the first to climb out, red braids tight-wrapped in a high crown above her forehead. She looked about her timidly before she reached back into the van, a little boy with strawberry blond curls squirming in her arms. An older couple — her folks? — emerged slowly from the VW, the woman’s salt-and-ginger hair and dimmed-down face a pale variation of her daughter. The man gritted his teeth as he swung his hips clear on the driver’s side of the faded Volks. Of course it was raining, that steady flat drizzle that draws in the horizon and absorbs any light. None of them wore rain gear. I leaned my weed-whacker against a cedar tree, went right over and put my hand on the toddler’s chubby forearm. The young woman’s grey eyes widened and she backed away. I took a step closer and rumpled the boy’s hair.

“It’s okay. Little kids like me. What is he, nearly two? Welcome to Miracle Beach Marina. Here, give him to me.” Her arms and face tightened as I pulled the boy from her arms, surprised by his heft. He leaned away, then tilted his face up to look at me, curious. Dark blue eyes the colour of larkspur, eyelashes like a calf ’s. I smiled at him, then turned back to the others. “I’m Peter Merrick. The owner.” I jerked my head toward the office. “You folks look like you could use a little help right about now.”

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Medium 9780253019608

1 Goethe in Borytshev

Gronemann, Sammy Indiana University Press PDF


Goethe in Borytshev


Berl Weinstein had himself baptized again, and this time with great success. All in all, he probably made about eight hundred marks. His expenses this time were relatively minor. He had made a detour from Amsterdam, which had been on his itinerary to London; he had spent almost three weeks taking care of payments accruing to charity in all the Jewish quarters and only then showing up at the mission society’s large meeting in Whitechapel: he had long been making a number of workers in the vineyards of the Lord happy in their hearts—he had managed to give a hot-headed young man of the cloth, handing out strong tea and very watery speeches, the triumph of his first success in conversion—presenting the image of deep emotions and pensive contemplation, he had allowed the baptismal act to flow over him in the tiny mission chapel—he had pressed the hands of his patrons and godparents, humbly but with a suggestion of inner resolve, apparently unable to put into words what he was feeling, arousing in them the happy sentiment that his future life, dedicated to heaven, would be filled with an awareness of eternal gratitude and marked by the knowledge of an unpayable debt—he had a splendid tract from the mission, generously decorated with Bible quotations, written in classical Hebrew by the Reverend Hickler, who hoped for everlasting fame as the author and for great success in the Lord’s work—in short: he had made a lot of people happy, exuded an atmosphere of trust and bonhomie, and thereby had earned approximately eight hundred marks; he could congratulate himself in every way, and he decided to pledge in the temple next Sabbath a stately sum for the poor in Palestine.

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