993 Slices
Medium 9781574412994


Jane Roberts Wood University of North Texas Press PDF


Out the Summerhill Road


Theo will call Betsy. It will be Betsy, or possibly Gaynor, since he had fallen all over himself paying attention to her during the meeting at the bank. As the women wait, the days grow shorter. Colder. A week passes. Then another. And still Theodore White has not called.

As Gaynor waits she finds herself constantly seeking her lover’s presence. At the animal hospital, she assists as he examines and treats the animals, and she is by his side during surgery and there when he consoles clients whose animals are quite ill or, at times, about to undergo euthanasia. And in bed at night, she curves her body, spoon like, inside his. Preparing for lactation her breasts grow firm and tender so that when he caresses them, kisses them, she suspects that he knows.

How could he not? He must know. A veterinarian treating all animals?

It’s a chilly late September and Bill makes a fire in the fireplace and comes, bringing breakfast to her bed. “There’s a nip in the air,” he says. “Stay in bed awhile.”

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Spencer Gordon Coach House Books ePub





Amid a pile of paper plates, pizza boxes and the crumbly remains of breakfast, I stare down at the July ’91 edition of WWF Magazine. Jake ‘The Snake’ Roberts glares back from the glossy cover, his cocked brow just oozing evil. WWF Magazine is a regular sight in our house. Eddy, my eight-year-old brother, saves all his change to run down to the convenience store every month to grab the new edition. He has me read the articles to him. On this month’s cover there’s a headline about The Ultimate Warrior – Eddy’s favourite wrestler – and his ongoing feud with The Undertaker, who’s one of the most feared heels in the World Wrestling Federation. To Eddy, wrestling is literally life and death, especially when the Warrior is involved. Of course, as his big sister, I know better – I know it’s absolute horseshit.

From where I sit at the table, I can hear Gorilla Monsoon – black, hyperactive poodle, bought for forty bucks two weeks ago from a retired steelworker on East 22nd Street – whining non-stop in the spare bedroom. Gorilla isn’t properly housebroken. Mom and Uncle Keith (not really my uncle – he’s Mom’s boyfriend, most recent and longest lasting) are throwing a party tonight. They want Gorilla locked in the bedroom because if we let him run around the house he’ll piss and shit all over the floors, and for now it’s just too hot to keep him out back, especially with all that black fur. Gorilla’s so spastic that neither of them wants to deal with his jumping and barking, so his prison sentence extends until the end of the bash. Knowing Gorilla, and knowing Mom’s parties, the puppy will be yelping until three in the morning.

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Medium 9789351380511


A.J. Sebastian SDB Laxmi Publications PDF


Arjun Deo Charan’s

Jatra: An Allegory

Rajasthani playwright and poet Arjun Deo Charan in his play, “Jatra” makes a reflection on the various dimensions of humanism with personification of values, prompting man to keep alive the flames of humanism for survival. The play may be treated as a comedy of menace in the absurd theatre tradition, as the atmosphere is one of nervous tension, coupled with comical situations. The absurdists believe that reality is meaningless and senseless. Absurd theatre presents the absurdity of modern human condition and the humanity’s loss of religious, philosophical, or cultural roots. The individual is essentially isolated and alone. It presents the existential outlook of man depicting him lonely, confused and often anguished in a bewildering universe ( Murfin 2).

The play opens as Pathway (personification of road), and Shadow and his team

(personification of human values), both clad in loin-cloth and carrying burning flame in earthen pitcher, appear in conversation with each other. Pathway reveals his identity to

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Medium 9781574412406

14. The Last Dead Boyfriend

Aimee La Brie University of North Texas Press PDF



because I know he is not real, I know it, but here he is in the same white T-shirt and khaki pants he wore in life, though in death, they buried him in a shiny suit he would’ve hated because it was not made from one-hundred percent cotton.

There’s another complication—a four-month-old problem in my uterus, a DNA conglomeration of me and him, half AntiChrist (Nicholas), half idiot (me). I can’t decipher if Nicholas knows of it, or the appointment I have for what I consider the exorcism, like the fetus is a spirit that has taken up space in my body and must simply be asked to vacate the womb. A doctor on lower Wacker Avenue has agreed to suction it out. I plan on requesting a high dose of laughing gas. It hasn’t moved yet, so I prefer to think of it as something that will disappear in the night without leaving a forwarding address.

Nicholas wants me to go away with him. “What are you doing here with these sickos?” We watch two kids across the street blowing bubbles on their front lawn. The bubbles shimmer like small, translucent heads. They pop in mid-air, sending soapy kisses into the grass.

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Medium 9781574416473


Polly Buckingham University of North Texas Press ePub

Baby Michelle slept like a kitten against Sheila's chest, Nick's white crew hat completely covering her face so it was hard to tell she was anything other than part of the baby sack. Nick lifted the edge of the hat with his thumb, but all he saw was the hat's arcing shadow; even her tiny red fists had disappeared into folds of cloth. “Hey there, Little Buddy.”

“Stop calling her that,” Sheila said.

The air smelled of butter and corn and meat, and the cacophony of twenty or so bands playing at once stirred Nick, the rhythm like a pulse. He wanted to jump up and down in a crowd close to the stage and the speakers which thumped like his insides thumped, to hold his arms in the air and shout above the deafening sounds of a grunge or punk band, to bash his body against the bodies of others.

“But that's my Gilligan hat,” Nick said, stepping in place so as not to get ahead of Sheila. He'd gotten the hat on a trip to the coast to visit his aunt and uncle. They were always giving him gifts. As a child he'd loved them more than he'd loved his own parents, a love that eventually turned to shame the more he grew to dislike his parents. He'd grabbed the hat along with the one small duffle bag of stuff he cared anything about—his coolest shirts and surfer shorts, some books Sheila'd given him, and a couple of giant moonshells—when his parents had “recommended” he move out. “We just can't take it,” his mother'd said, meaning, we don't want to be responsible for your baby. He should have been glad his life with them was over, but instead he'd hated himself for not leaving sooner, hated himself for waiting until he'd gotten his high school girlfriend pregnant and moved out only by default.

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