998 Chapters
Medium 9780253006837

9: Bashir Binladen

Abdourahman A. Waberi Indiana University Press ePub



SO I GOT TOO-TOO MAD. Let's get real here. You think people walk with their ass on the ground? We hear the rebels almost in Djibouti and us, we stuck here, in mountain. They gonna waste everybody over there. When they gonna give the order to attack Scud positions? They say president he don't give a damn about anything, homeland, fatherland, population. He too-too old. So he left for vacation in Parisian hospital after rest in private villa-chateau cause now it's haga* (that Djibouti summer, sun it hot lead melting on your skull, even the asphalt on the road yell mama mama I'm too-too melted). Haga, too fierce. All the leaders (that use to be English before, now not so sure) they left to rest up in Paris, Switzerland, Washimton (for the big somebodies), Addis, Cairo, Yemen (for the small fry—that cook language, Ayanleh who was student cook for the Whites before mobilization told me that). And us, we famished an languished on bald mountain there. We bite our nails cause of nothing to do. Gotta attack Scud making too many corner kicks, an beat it up a little, I say. Gotta hit Scud in Achilles' heel. But that little chief of us, he don't agree. You need green light from chiefa staff even, he answer. Man! We ain't out of this yet. Little chief of us with walkie-talkie an old VHF radio (cause big chief need Motorola cell, of course) he don't agree at all. You think we having fun here? We maintaining the blockade so the rebels are cut off from urban centers. Bullshit. For long time now, Scud been getting supplies from the sea with fast little patrol boats getting ammunition and 9mm in Yemen, that not even confidential top military secret. Even some wounded rebels, they get treated in Peltier Hospital in Djibouti cause they got cousins in goverment too. Me I say all that business shady-shady. He who has ears, let him hear, cept maybe the phony deaf. The country's future's dot-dot-dot suspension points so you gotta think real hard. When war's over, I look for nice chic job. Yes, I know profession like that, it real job front of American Embassy or Mitterrand Consulate, yes. But hey, that my secret.

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Medium 9780253019608

6 The Sounds of Easter

Gronemann, Sammy Indiana University Press PDF


The Sounds of Easter


In the end, Pastor Bode was more aware of Pesach this year than even Rabbi

Rosenbacher; in any case, of the two school friends Marie Lodemann and Hilde

Lilienfeld it was only the Pastor’s wife who even saw matzah at all.

“For God’s sake, what have you got there?” she scolded the little maid, who was sitting contentedly in a corner by the stove and stuffing the crumbly crunchy bits into her mouth, grinding them thoroughly with her healthy jaws. “What in the world is that?” and with sharp scrutiny the alarmed housewife swept the shiny scoured floor, which now looked as if a snowstorm had hit.

“Matzah,” Liese said reluctantly as the notion of having done something wrong began to dawn on her, “from Baker Schnerson.”

Frau Marie gasped for air.

“Get rid of this stuff immediately,” she said briskly. “This has no place in a

Christian household—that nasty garbage! Didn’t you know that at Easter, Jews—”

She recollected herself and stopped; but it wasn’t her fate to hold back something that burned on her tongue. She sailed into her husband’s study. There she burst into a vigorous exchange between the Pastor and Dr. Strösser. The high school teacher was sitting in the corner of the sofa smoking, while Bode was standing on a chair in front of the bookcase, feverishly rummaging on the top shelf.

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Medium 9781927068151

Tom and Wilkie

Hayes, Derek Thistledown Press ePub


WILKIE SEES AN ELDERLY MAN BESIDE A run-down barbecue shack, next to the town’s community centre, looking out at the graveyard, his withering grey hair messed by the wind. He is seven years younger than Wilkie, but at seventy, old in comparison to most everyone else. His name is Tom. He’s still handsome, his jaw and shoulders manly and sturdy, whereas Wilkie lost his looks in his early thirties, if he ever had any. The muscles around Tom’s mouth are twitching. His wife’s funeral was earlier today so he’s grieving. He’d be surprised to learn that Wilkie is watching him, as he would also be shocked that Wilkie has observed him for the past fifty-five or so years. Tom underestimated Wilkie early on, dismissed him as someone of no consequence. Wilkie is Robert Wilkinson, owner of O’Brien’s Restaurant and president of the Harriers, a men’s group dedicated to the survival of the town. His ancestors, Scottish and English, have been involved in the Harriers for generations.

When he was a teenager Wilkie was an assistant coach of the local hockey team because his father was head coach and because he loved being around hockey players, even if they were young. And Tom was simply the best bantam hockey player to play the game. Wilkie’s dad had him pegged as someone who might make it as a hockey player and then return to become a community leader and contribute to the economic wellbeing of their bucolic, non-descript tobacco town, population 1800, two hours south of Toronto.

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Medium 9780253001801


Robin Hemley Indiana University Press ePub

The first time they heard the preacher, Dan and Molly were about to make love. Molly had her arms around Dan's neck. They were on the four-poster flea market bed, both of them paint-spackled and exhausted from a day of fixing up the new bungalow. Sex had been about the farthest thing from either of their minds. They'd been discussing color schemes for the bedroom, Dan quite seriously, Molly only half-heartedly. “You choose,” she'd said with impatience and indifference edging her voice. “Whatever it is, it'll be fine.” Dan felt his own irritation and joylessness rise inside him, and almost answered her sharply. Instead, he beat his anger back. Molly, defiant, ready to fight, but willing to avoid one, said, partly as a diversionary tactic, partly as an irritation test, “You know, you've got paint all over your new glasses.” The two of them stood side by side, waiting, poised between rejection and need, and then toppled together into bed. This promised to be the best kind of lovemaking: wholly unplanned, intuitive, wild, and slightly comical.

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Medium 9780253007919

Part One: The Country

Alain Mabanckou Indiana University Press ePub



It is better to dream one’s life than to live it, though even living it is to dream it.

—Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time












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