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Medium 9781574412796

Chapter Twelve

Jane Roberts Wood University of North Texas Press PDF

Chapter Twelve

1

Father D’acosta is a solitary pr iest, but not in the way of most priests. In this great old Dallas church his solitude, although at times a hairshirt, is often simply scratchy, slightly heavy. It is a shirt woven of a simple yet fervent need, a single passionate longing. He yearns to be able, in the manner of other priests, to be given God’s grace in order to bestow God’s grace. For is not this the office, the deepest office of a priest? And yet he cannot do this. For all the years of his priesthood he has lived with this failure, has become accustomed to the weight of it. Sadly it is a burden that grows with each passing hour of each day. Yet how simple to others is the bestowal of this gift. From the moment Father Keeney enters a grief-filled room, those in his presence feel that he loves them above all others. His tenderness promises God’s healing; his compassion offers a future of brighter days. And the joy Father Morris takes in sunsets and birdsong and rain, in good food and brandy, in the religious and the secular, that very joy promises God’s grace. Father o’Brien bestows this gift through the easy benevolence of his hearty laughter, his quick wit. The warmth of his embrace. But he himself? How clumsy, how ineffective is his offering. To the deepest needs of

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Medium 9780253010476

Chapter 26

William Williams Indiana University Press ePub

It was not long after this before we had a dismal stroke befell us, attended with fatal consiquences to us all, as thus. The while we men happened to be out in the bay after the Turtle the cursed Monkey overset a Yabba as it was boiling on the fire, by which my son Owen got one of his feet scalded. This so greatly alarmed them all, as they knew how much I prized him, that my Wife packed Eva off into the Woods after certain roots to stew as a remedy. The poor creture went off with speed altho then with child. We did not return untill about 4 oclock. When I went into the house I found the boy with his foot lap’d up, and had the story in full. My Wife said Eva had been gone a great time after herbs or roots, and wonder’d what detain’d her so long. I took no notice at that about her, but ordered the Monkey to be drown’d at once, being determined it should never be the cause of more mischief; and Harry settled that point with a stone about its neck in the Lagoon.

Now as the evening advanced Mr. Bell grew uneasy about his Wife, saying perhaps She had rambled beyond her knowledge and had lost herself. “How can that be? She has been all over the wood diverse times.” said I. “But you and Harry had better go off in quest of her with one of the Shells.” And away they went and did not return untill Sun down but without any tidings. Now I began to be much alarm’d and advised that they should get torches without loss of time, arm themselves and off again at once, dreading her being alone in the Forest after night as I made no doubt of her being devoured before ye morning. We heard them almost the whole time tooting and shouting. I ordered Patty to make up as large a fire as she could as a direction for them back again. Every now and then I blew a Conck, and thus time passed until midnight. Now all were in tears about me; and if I did not hear their sound now and then my Soul filled with horror least they should all three be lost.

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Medium 9781574412994

Girls in White Dresses

Jane Roberts Wood University of North Texas Press PDF

2�

Out the Summerhill Road

Girls in White Dresses

It was horrible! Just horrible! Rosemary Winslow murdered!

Her body found in the Park the night, the very night, of

Sarah’s slumber party! Rosemary Winslow. A nice girl. Who could believe it? Not her best friends who waited until three in the morning before they woke up Sarah’s parents to tell them they didn’t know where she was or why she hadn’t come.

When the girls saw the grim look on Mrs. Claiborne’s face and watched as Mr. Claiborne threw on his robe and rushed down the stairs to the telephone, they began to realize that something was horribly, dreadfully wrong.

But even as the police were called and a search was begun, nobody dreamed it would end in a nightmare. Who could believe that? Not Rosemary’s father, who, after the call came from Sarah’s dad, hugged his wife and said, “Stay here. By the phone. In case she calls.” And Jacob Winslow threw a coat on over his pajamas, jumped into his car and drove slowly, forced himself to drive slowly, so that he could look down every drive between his house and the Claibornes’ for his baby girl’s blue convertible. But when he saw the two police cars blocking the entrance to the Park, saw a policeman holding his cap in his hand and with his face turned to stone, Jacob knew it was bad. He stepped out of his car and threw up before the policeman could say they had found a young man’s body in the Park beside a blue Chevrolet convertible and that a search for his daughter had already begun.

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Medium 9781574412406

13. Words to Live By

Aimee La Brie University of North Texas Press PDF

Wo rd s t o L i v e B y

135

something so funny you almost peed your pants. Remember when you studied together at the Café Gourmet and you pretended to read The Color Purple and he was so beautiful, looking down at his book, his hand resting on his cheek, writing in the crooked left-handed way of his. He admired your Bettie

Page poster.

He says your name before he comes. He’s affectionate after.

You both love Woody Allen films, making fun of stupid movies, sushi, Indian food. You agree you’re not sure what happens when you die, but the two of you verge on hopeful atheism. He said you are the sexiest woman he’d ever met. He did the dishes without you asking. He’s not bad in bed. If only he would read something besides Nietzsche or Jack Kerouac.

He’s in medical, dental, law, graduate school, trying to finish his dissertation on Chaucer. He can’t leave Maggie, his golden retriever, overnight. He once had major surgery. He doesn’t realize he’s homosexual. They moved around a lot when he was a kid.

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Medium 9780253016881

Pete, Waste Lab Technician

Edited by Michael Martone and Bryan Furu Break Away Book Club Edition ePub

Pete, Waste Lab Technician

Sometimes when late at night I think I see someone out of the corner of my eye, it is really only one of those roving shadows. They rove up on a wall or behind me when I am pushing an empty gurney into the Waste Lab. I do not know why it is called the Waste Lab.

I am really not afraid of anything.

When I was small, for a short time, buttons frightened me.

The gurneys have a peculiar smell, hard to describe.

I am not really sure what I should tell you about myself. The roving shadows are what come to mind because they are really so startling and mysterious, but there is also a cafeteria which at night is inhabited by a number of talkative zombies. They call themselves the Undead (predictably). And they jabber. Blah blah. They do not eat much, mainly the candy bars and juice boxes. I have discovered that they don’t like meat, which seems strange to me.

Strictly speaking, I am not in charge of the Waste Lab. If you care to know what the Waste Lab looks like there are three boxy windows up very high which require a device with a hook for opening, beneath which there are the walls with all the gurneys pushed up against them. That leaves a space in the middle of the room which I enjoy traversing. The floor is golden, as is the entire floor of this building.

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Medium 9781574415384

In These Times the Home Is a Tired Place

Jessica Hollander University of North Texas Press ePub

In These Times the Home Is a Tired Place

PART ONE

1. Only one dream the mother remembered: driving, dead bodies on the road, the word PAPER large and black on a billboard. Sometimes she made up different dreams when she woke panicked in the gray morning, imagining an airport chase, a lake drowning—but they weren’t really hers, only dreams she believed she should have instead of always the one: driving through death and the urge to pull over.

2. The girl spent a Saturday morning cutting snowflakes from a pile of paper she’d found on her mother’s desk. The snowflakes were peppered with sliced negotiations, diamond-pierced words like child and property and alimony, and when the girl finished she strung the flakes together and hung them from her window so they trailed to the berry bush and flapped in the stirred summer wind.

3. Screamed in the kitchen one night. Too many cooks in the saucepan. Too little wine. Granite counters crusted with crushed tomato, sea salt, sausage casing, but no food besides the steaming meal bleeding over the bin. The girl sent to her room—Now. The father’s recipes stacked and chopped to pieces and confettied across the tile. Division always makes less unless one was a fraction to begin with. “Divide by me,” the father said. “Then we both come out ahead.”

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Medium 9781574415384

This Kind of Happiness

Jessica Hollander University of North Texas Press ePub

This Kind of Happiness

In the middle of a mandatory meeting about proposal distribution, the girlfriend excused herself, took the stairs to the second floor bathroom, where space belonged to her: all these cubes she could enter, doors she could latch. Here, she could carefully read the directions and administer the test. She could sit on the toilet watching the white stick’s cloudy window without the boyfriend asking, asking, asking. What’s that? What’s wrong? Are you . . . ? Are you?

At home, the boyfriend was everywhere. He occupied the bathroom with her—flossed while she showered, shaved while she peed—because, he once told her, the windowless, linoleum-floored room, with the ceiling fan cranking and the curling water streaks and the clumps of hair in the corners, was the loneliest room in the apartment.

The girlfriend went into a bathroom stall and took the pregnancy test. She waited. The bathroom door opened and a pair of red Mary Janes paused in front of her stall.

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Medium 9780253008183

15 Splendid, Silent Sun

Jason L Brown Quarry Books ePub

Yelizaveta P. Renfro

11/6

Claudette—

You’ll never believe where I am—or rather, you’ve already surmised from the picture on the reverse of this postcard. Yes, Nebraska. You know, that state in the middle somewhere, just another corn-filled patch in the quilt of indistinguishable states that make up the interior. You see that farmhouse and the gently rolling fields of corn in the picture? That’s why I’m here. To find that. Not that particular house, per se, but what it stands for: that open and uncomplicated life that’s vanished in L.A. Nebraska. Just the sound of the word conjures up images of corn and wholesome tow-headed children and the Fourth of July. It’s more American than apple pie, right? Of course you’ve never thought about it. You’ve never been here. It’s the coasts for you. Fine. But for me, this bland Midwestern Americana is the exotic. I’m here to see it all.

Brian

11/7

Claudette—

I went on a little stroll today around Dudley’s neighborhood and had the scare of my life. I was maybe three blocks from Dudley’s house, just walking along, looking up at all these grand old houses with big porches and porch swings, as Midwestern as you please. And then, out of nowhere, came this awful buzz like an air-raid siren—or at least what I imagine an air-raid siren to sound like. The noise was all around me, coming from every direction, and for a minute I thought: Holy Jesus, the Soviets have launched their nuclear weapons at last, and here I am stuck in Nebraska! Nonsense, of course—how long has the Cold War been over now? When did the Soviet Union fall? I guess it was some vestigial fear from childhood, when the commies were the bad guys. Who are the bad guys now? I couldn’t remember, as I stood there paralyzed, listening to that awful wail, waiting for the big old planes swollen up with bombs in their bellies to come roaring overhead. Would they be painted with swastikas, Muslim moons?

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Medium 9780253006837

Harbi

Abdourahman A. Waberi Indiana University Press ePub

HARBI

ROISSY. Air France. Daily flight to Saint-Denis de la Réunion via Cairo and Djibouti. The overbooked, overwhelmed airline is transferring some of its passengers to other airlines like Air Afrique. People willing to switch can make up to a thousand francs on the deal. OK? OK! You did the right thing. New situation. The line there is ten times longer. A mountain of luggage. Huge crowd. Everybody chewing gum with great energy. I spot Kaba Something-or-other, a guy with the look of a Sahelian Mafioso; he's knocking the whole line about with his cumbersome bags and wants to charm me into giving him a hand. Boarding time for the Africans being deported “of their own free will.” A dozen or so scheduled to be transported the usual way; three male individuals will be locked up in the cramped space of the restrooms, piled in and immediately incarcerated quick as two whiffs of a cigarette. A man wearing a glaring yellow vest with the word “technician” on his back, helped by three PAF 1 agents, has stuck a thick roll of gray tape on the restroom door so the passengers who happen to have missed the caging or whose eyes had avoided it won't venture into those restrooms. Strange how the same scene keeps being repeated almost every day on other flights always bound for some African destination. Each time, the unfortunate deportee tries squealing like a tortured whale just to stir the conscience of the ordinary passenger, usually a tourist. Today's deportee is Congolese, supposedly a shopkeeper from Pointe Noire, and his fate seems sealed. A few moments later on the Airbus, there are some angry reactions among the passengers, followed by a nauseous feeling culminating in a widespread urge to throw up. And considering the passenger's extreme state of agitation, the captain finally gives in after some heated negotiations and the troublemaker is taken off board, returned to his cell, and put back into the retention center in a waiting zone of the airport. At least he's alive, luckier than the ones who die of dehydration in the Arizona desert or freeze to death inside the undercarriage of some cargo plane.

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Medium 9780253002365

Chapter Forty-One

Gregory Schwipps Indiana University Press ePub

Of course the visit was something she was anxious to converse about. She’d waited months just to see Ollie and now he’d given her so many additional things to say about his new family. But at the moment Frank was outside messing around and she had no one to talk with. She sat at the table and relived the visit—what he’d said, what the little girl was wearing. She hadn’t seen too many things she’d classify as miracles, but she was considering adding Ollie meeting Summer to her short list.

Even though Frank had provided Ollie with strict instructions on how to re-fasten the chain after he headed back home, or wherever he was staying, as soon as he left Frank drove out there to make sure he’d done it correctly. In the headlamps’ beams he studied it. Not exactly as he’d told him to do it, sure enough, so he unlocked the padlock and positioned it so it hung down, not up. Otherwise the key works might fill with rain and rust. That was his son right there: he could do some things, but nothing exactly right, and a lot of them wrong altogether. Redoing the lock gave Frank a chance to think about the mess Ollie’d walked into before Ethel got started.

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Medium 9781942496656

Chapter 24

Charlotte Jones Solution Tree Press ePub

“Kaelo.”

He turned at his mother’s voice. “What?” he said sharply.

Shira had already been sent down to the dungeons. Kaelo and his family were walking back to their quarters, speaking amongst themselves quietly. No one was able to forget Shira’s outburst. One instant, she had been sitting sullenly on the stool, insolently listening as Kaelo tried to penetrate her obstinacy. The next, she had leapt to her feet, screaming at him in Sunbursti with tears pouring down her face.

After the guards took her, he had asked General Shevo what she had said. Although he understood Sunbursti, it made little sense to him.

“She was shouting about you destroying people and filling her with darkness,” he said, his puzzlement not fading. “She also mentioned the captain. Why would she do that?”

Kaelo had shrugged. He tried to push away the troubled feelings in his stomach. Shining Shira was toying with them. She was a spoiled, arrogant child who had never learned to relate to anyone. She did not know pain. She did not deserve what she had been given.

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Medium 9780253019028

Luminous City, Luminous Gallery

IU Press Journals Indiana University Press ePub

Kimbembele Ihunga. Installation shot from Luminós/C/ity.Ordinary Joy exhibition at the Cooper Gallery, Fall 2014. Bodys Isek Kingelez, 1994. Paper, cardboard, polystyrene, mixed media. Photo by Marcus Halevi. Courtesy of the Pigozzi Contemporary African Art Collection (WWW.JAPIGOZZICOLLECTION.COM | WWW.CAACART.COM)

David Adjaye, Mariane Ibrahim-Lenhardt, and Henry Louis Gates, Jr. discuss the new Cooper Gallery and its first exhibition, Luminós/C/ity.Ordinary Joy

WHEN IT CAME time to design a dynamic space for Harvard University’s new Ethelbert Cooper Gallery of African and African American Art, the Hutchins Center’s founding director, Henry Louis Gates, Jr., turned to award-winning Ghanaian architect David Adjaye, whose numerous grand and ambitious public buildings—including the soon-to-open Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture—are renowned for their seamless merger of modernist and African aesthetics. When Adjaye was then invited to curate the first exhibition in the new gallery space, he sought the help of Mariane Ibrahim-Lenhardt, the young Somalian curator whose gallery in Seattle is making waves by insisting that African contemporary artists be taken seriously by the contemporary art world at large. In this conversation—which took place at the Cooper Gallery’s opening event in October 2014—Gates, Adjaye, and Ibrahim-Lendardt discuss the gallery’s architecture and the process by which Adjaye and Ibrahim-Lendardt selected the pieces for their show from the legendary Pigozzi Contemporary African Art Collection. The Cooper Gallery is under the direction of Vera I. Grant and is located in the heart of Harvard Square in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

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Medium 9780253002365

Chapter Five

Gregory Schwipps Indiana University Press ePub

As the afternoon wore on, the sun slipped below the peak of the barn roof, momentarily setting it ablaze, and then the house fell into shade and immediately cooled. Frank knew exactly what time the sun would drop behind the barn in July. It changed about a minute, later or earlier depending on the season, every day. In winter the sun fell to the side of the barn, but he still timed it. He’d watch it set and then consult the clocks. As soon as it was completely hidden by the roof and the barn swallows were out swooping around the yard, he said to Ethel, “You better go feed your chickens.”

He no longer had cows to feed and worry over. His father had kept a herd of about twenty Herefords, even before Frank was born, and so some of his earliest memories were of his father holding him over the cows’ heads as they ate from the manger in the barn. And Ethel’s father Tarif had also run cows. Over the last forty years, Frank had cared for as many as fifty head at one time. He’d been there to check on pregnant heifers in the blue cold hours of the night, gone into the barn to feed them on sunny days and on days when tornados threatened. He’d buried some calves and bottle-fed others to health. There’d always been cattle in his life, but there were none now. He knew something of the life of an amputee.

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Medium 9780253019813

Elvis the Pelvis

Zachary Tyler Vickers Break Away Book Club Edition ePub

This morning my front maple is draped with toilet paper. Lyle clings to my leg, teething on his leash tethered to the upright piano. A lawn gnome hangs from a limb by something metal, bent like a noose. Maybe the local teenage gang S.I.V. did this? I recently saw those initials spray-painted vertically on a lamppost at the playground, a phallus carved into the teeter-totter with a misspelled curse veined across the shaft. I shielded Lyle’s innocent eyes. Except how did the gang jettison the toilet paper over the highest branches? Nobody can throw that high. Not without a ladder. Only that schmuck Tony Duda could maybe ever do that.

In high school Duda was the stud varsity quarterback. I was the elite trombonist nobody. Duda triple-pump-faked Forrest Andover Central High’s secondary during Homecoming while the band marched and performed the alma mater with cunning tenacity in glorified foil sombreros. We called ourselves the Upstate Space Racers, which added flatulent hipness. Duda and his linemen were versatile student athletes. We were swirlied, wedgied, wet willied, noogied, nut tapped, Indian burned, charley horsed, spitballed, and purple nurpled. Duda once pantsed me in the cafeteria and exposed my underwear portraying Elvis Presley’s snarling mug. The briefs were on clearance. Money was tight in my family. My parents were loving and uneducated. I didn’t have confident leg hair yet. I started wearing two belts to school.

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Medium 9781574412796

Chapter Thirteen

Jane Roberts Wood University of North Texas Press PDF

Chapter Thirteen

1

Miss W eems says Mr . Sa m W itherspoon w ill be coming to pick up Albert, the Boston bull. “Sam will be right for

Albert,” she says. “They’re both getting on in years. And Sam’s bound to be lonesome living in that big house all by himself without Martha.”

When Mr. Witherspoon arrives Mary Lou sees the match right away. Mr. Witherspoon plods stiffly along with his head down just like Albert. And they both have round brown eyes that bulge a little.

The three of them stand in the parlor looking down at Albert.

“Albert, you’ll like Mr. Witherspoon,” Miss Weems promises.

Albert looks up at Mr. Witherspoon, turns his back on him, and trots out of the room.

Miss Weems says, “He’s a little shy at first, but he’ll be just fine. Now Sam, Miss Barbara’s cousin has already paid the fees.

Albert’s had all his shots and, as far as we know, he’s healthy. But he’s mighty lonesome right now.”

Albert sticks his head back around the door. Mr. Witherspoon plods over, stoops, and pats his head. “Well, little feller, you reckon we can get along?”

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