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Medium 9780253019813

Everything in Relation to Everything Else

Zachary Tyler Vickers Break Away Book Club Edition ePub

Television lights move over Sammy’s face in a way he can feel. Maybe this indicates emotional depth? Later, Delilah will tie his hands with scrunchies, ride him belligerent in her Honda, then drop him off. Sammy imagines the impending ache and bruises, turning his old high school football championship ring. The MVP engraving is his cross to bear. But he tells himself this is safer, this Delilah fiasco. It’s better than nothing.

Then a commercial: two bikinied babes on horseback blow cartoon kisses in slowmo. Here are local singles waiting to chat! These lights feel exclusive to Sammy. He navigates Kiss&Tell.com®, creating a profile by uploading his picture and selecting three self-descriptors from the site’s database that will match him with other compatible users.

Here is a user already clicking Sammy’s Pinch LoveButton™. She types via Insta-Flirt™ that she won’t go on a SimuDate™ with him until they get better acquainted. Sammy couldn’t agree more, thrice divorced. Soon his children will return from their respective mothers and compare notes, looking for themes to connect the failed marriages. They’ll sometimes chaff him, calling him Rent-a-Mom. Sammy can take a joke, laughing hard enough that when the tears come they’ll be inconspicuous. Miranda315’s profile picture shows a brunette holding two young children. Her status: divorcee. Sammy Insta-Flirts™, How would she like to get better acquainted? She recommends the 20Q FactFinder™ app. Sammy purchases the app, figuring it’s cheaper than a fourth alimony. He clicks Miranda315’s Pinch LoveButton™, thinking his children are going to need a new nickname for him.

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Medium 9781771870764


Forrie, Allan Thistledown Press ePub
The contrast between life and death is presented using the example of the town of Dachau, whose main tourist attractions – the former Nazi death camp and a monastery where monks brew beer – are juxtaposed with the author’s memory of a beautiful young girl playing joyfully around her grandfather’s grave in “O Wheel”.
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Medium 9781942496656

Chapter 37

Charlotte Jones Solution Tree Press ePub

“Captain de Solis!” Kaelo said.

He hid his astonishment coolly and glanced at Shevo, who stood beside him. Twelve of the Iniskroun immediately moved forward, providing a wall between Kaelo and Shevo and Conrad and the convicts. Each of the Iniskroun brandished a wickedly sharp metal blade, painfully emphasizing the lackluster weapons possessed by Conrad’s motley following.

“What a pleasant surprise!” Shevo said in Sunbursti.

He shot a deadly glare at the Rosan boy, who was staring at the horde of Cloudic convicts and Conrad with an unreadable expression. The boy shrank at the murderous look. Kaelo pressed his knife against the boy’s spine and squeezed his shoulder tightly in his hand, making his intentions very clear if the boy tried anything foolish.

“You seem to have made some friends,” Shevo said mockingly. He kept his gaze locked on Conrad, trying to keep him engaged as five Iniskroun standing on the palace walls above them prepared their crossbows.

“You should try it,” Conrad said, watched him carefully. The rest of the prisoners entered the courtyard around him, waiting for a reason to attack.

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Medium 9781574413199

Chapter One

Geoff Schmidt University of North Texas Press PDF
Medium 9789351380511


A.J. Sebastian SDB Laxmi Publications PDF


Mahesh Elkunchwar’s Reflection:

A Study in Loss of Identity

Mahesh Elkunchwar (1939 - ) presents a wide range of dramatic situations, theatrical devices, and speech rhythms in his plays which portray preoccupation with death, loneliness, creativity, the illusion of wealth, and the apparent purposelessness of choice or action while the ultimate goal of life remained unknown (“Mahesh Elkunchwar.” http://www.indianetzone.com). As a dramatist, he has been successful in portraying human predicament in the face of death, loneliness and illusions of all kinds, leading to apparent purposelessness of choice as the ultimate goal of life remaining unknown

(Lal 120). He writes like the absurdists for whom reality being meaningless, there is no God and man’s life is reduced to a mere circular progress from nothing to nothing.

The true field of battle is inside us, in the Unconscious. The absurdists have no story or plot, no recognizable characters, no proper theme with a beginning and end. They reflect dreams and nightmares with incoherent babbling (Esslin 21-22). The playwright presents characters who are migrants to the metropolis “brought together by chance, rootless, with rootlessness as their only bond” (qtd Bandyopadhyay xi).

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Medium 9780253016881

Frances Parker

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

Frances Parker

I have been a doctor in this town for many years now. You won’t find me in the phone book, but if you go past the sign for Chief Raintree’s Village and the llama farm by the trailer sale lot and then take that winding road, which can be foggy at night and deceptive, you will come to an abandoned church—not abandoned anymore, that is. My dogs will be out front but don’t let them scare you. My friend Ansel is the pharmacist I use, the one at the drugstore on the square downtown that still has the real chocolate malts. He measures out the pills right in front of you. He’s also the one who’s been remodeling that big three-story house perched on a hill above Ash Street for about ten years now. They had that St. Bernard tied up by the garage for a while and a truck parked out front that had “Barely Gettin’ By” written on the side. You might have seen it. The front yard is a profusion of flowers this summer—lilies, daisies, bergamot—and the siding is halfway up. A nice slate color. But the brick sidewalk in front is still all torn up. It’s just a few houses up from the homeless shelter. Sharon, my partner, always says, would you trust a pharmacist who has started over so many times on his house and still can’t get it right? And I say, would you trust a doctor who lives in an abandoned church full of unpacked boxes and musical instruments and paintings and who still isn’t moved in? Barely gettin’ by, Sharon, barely gettin’ by. That’s my motto. My father was a luthier by trade—he made violins and cellos. He believed that if you shone a red light on an instrument, it would sound different than if you shone a blue light on it, that color and sound were somehow connected. He conducted all sorts of experiments with wood. He was always trying to discover the secret of Stradivarius, cooking amber in the front yard, mixing vermillion with rosematter, simmering the wood over a fire for months on end. He believed that if he could just discover the secret, he would be a rich man. I used to love the fact that he believed there was a secret—that was the thing I admired most about him—that he never gave up trying to find it. But I don’t really think there is a secret. Red light, blue light, if you tell someone that a violin is a Stradivarius it will sound good to them. My father would spend hours walking around with a violin in his hand, tapping, tapping the wood, then listening, his head cocked to one side. What was he listening for? I always start by leading the patient through what used to be the sanctuary when this was a church, past the one or two old church pews stacked with books and drums and gongs, past what used to be the altar, now with a tapestry of Jesus hanging there, because why not? he was a good man, and into the healing room, where I listen, carefully, until I hear the sound of his heart. I listen for a good long while.

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Medium 9780253012098


S. A. An-sky Indiana University Press ePub

MIRKIN WAS SO upset that as he was running into the dining room, he couldn’t find the door right away and rushed helplessly around the room.

Just at that moment the side door opened and Manya glanced in.

“Is that you, Mirkin? Are you leaving? Olga asks you to wait for her; she’s also going home.”

At first Mirkin didn’t understand what she was talking about and asked, “Where’s the door, to get out?”

“We’re heading the same way, aren’t we, Mirkin?” he heard Yegorova’s voice coming from Manya’s room.

“Ah, it’s you!” he replied joyfully. “There’s no way I could find the door here. . . . Yes, we’re going the same way,” he added, recalling where Yegorova lived, and he was surprised that he knew.

They left together. It was already close to midnight. The streets were completely empty. Somewhere the sound of a night watchman could be heard. An old Jew sat on the steps of a shop; he was the watchman and was loudly chanting the Psalms.

Wrapping himself tightly in his light coat, huddling from the cold and from internal agitation, Mirkin walked a bit ahead of Yegorova, moderating his pace so he didn’t outrun her. He felt good in her presence and gradually calmed down. Upon leaving the house, his first thought was to tell Yegorova about his argument with Schifrin, but he felt instinctively that it would be somewhat awkward—and didn’t say anything.

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Medium 9781574412406

10. Six Different Ways to Die in the Windy City!

Aimee La Brie University of North Texas Press PDF

S i x D i f f e re n t Wa y s t o D i e i n t h e Wi n d y C i t y !


The elevator is about the size of three upright coffins. When the mail guy leans over to hit his floor (the one right below

Betsy’s of course), he says, Excuse me, and Betsy presses her back against the wall. The closed elevator doors reflecting their figures make them look fuzzy and not all there.

This is the shape she remembers when he bursts through the glass doors of her office, holding a machine gun. He begins shooting. Rat-a-tat-tat. First, Maude the receptionist gets it in the back and slumps forward on the electric typewriter she uses when she’s typing up envelope addresses.

Betsy ducks behind her desk. He’s not looking for her. He might even let her live because of the intimate space they shared in the elevator.

His brown shoes move back and forth under the edge of her desk.

The gunfire is so fast that no one really has time to scream or scatter. His feet pivot. More rat-a-tat-tat. Someone says, Oh! The fire alarm goes off and the shrill sound almost covers the noise of the shooting. His feet vanish from view.

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Medium 9781574414660

Into the Atacama

Tehila Lieberman University of North Texas Press PDF

Into the Atacama


he Chilean desert, which runs 4,300 kilometers from the southernmost point of Tierra del Fuego to its border with Peru, is the driest desert on earth. It encapsulates within its narrow girth between Andean ridges and the Pacific, a good deal of

Chile’s tumultuous history—its copper and nitrate economy, its history of colonial exploitation, and even a few stories of Nazi chases.

Laboring through it on the Pan American highway, or by its small and dusty back roads, one cannot help but feel the relentless wrestling of man and the elements, especially when one witnesses the now lifeless towns and settlements that had once grown around the mines like devoted encampments around divine, life-giving temples.

Valle de La Luna, the forlorn remains of a now defunct saline lake, glistens mysteriously at night, absorbing and reflecting the secret migrations of the night sky, and has long been a magnet for the continent’s hippies and mystics. One can easily imagine scenes of romance or life and death passion plays in that crumbling natural amphitheater created by salt and light.

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Medium 9780253010476

Chapter 30

William Williams Indiana University Press ePub

Now it happened on a day Harry brought home half a dozen Flamingoes, and while the Children were picking them Norman observed to me that for the Sake of Novelty he would make us a Fowl Pye, and to work went he and Betty. They baked it nicely in our fine Oven, so that now we could command Boil’d, Roasted, Baked, Stewed, Barbecued &CC as we chose it.

About the latter end of September Norman and I went out on a party for Recreation And to fish in Deep Water, taking Owen with us. Now as we got out of the Lagoon the wind came round to East and my Messmate proposed that we should make some stretches into the Offing as it was a fine turning breeze, and we did so untill we got about 5 Miles out beyond the East point of Long Key. This was the greatest distance I had been right out in my whole time. And now the Wind began to die away, but we had expected to return with a fine leading breeze.

Now I proposed to stand in again. “As you please,” said he, and away we went before it for the space of half an hour when it died away and became stark calm. We now found a small current running to the Westward. “How now?” said I. “Here we are, but to get back is the question.”

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Medium 9789351380504


A.J. Sebastian SDB Laxmi Publications PDF


Metaphor in Easterine Kire’s

Bitter Wormwood

Easterine Kire’s (1959 - ) Bitter Wormwood is a novel that spans from the tumultuous period of the 1950s and 60s to the present day. Easterine sets the fictional narrative in perspective as she states:

... it is a book about the ordinary people whose lives were completely overturned by the freedom struggle. So I could say that it was the stories of the people and their untold suffering that inspired me to write this book. First, the community has the shared experience of  fear and then that is followed by silence. In the case of the Indian occupation of the Naga Hills, the people experienced genocide, starvation, burning of villages, fields and granaries and torture. Their culture was devalued and their religious centres such as churches were desecrated. Caste was used as an oppressive instrument because the Indian soldiers came from a caste society whereas Nagas were casteless. In subsequent years, occupation led to the problem of surviving Nagas experiencing the psychological effects of self-hatred, alcoholism, depression, and self abuse and domestic abuse. Another psychological effect of the constant oppressive policies is victimhood on a very high level. I’d like people to know the truth, unadulterated and ugly though it may be at times. Not my version of the truth but an objective truth that people in their heart of hearts will have to agree with as true, even if it paints an unattractive picture of the conflict and of the people who became its prisoners (http://www.icorn.org).

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Medium 9781942496656

Chapter 40

Charlotte Jones Solution Tree Press ePub

Conrad opened the door to his home quietly, looking around the empty front hall carefully before he set his trunk down.

It was dark. Shira had been silent on the carriage ride back to the palace, staring out the window as the buildings of white stone blurred by. When they pulled in, she had tried to blink away the tears brimming in her eyes, wiping away the single one that fell as though it was a sign of weakness. In a letter he had sent to one of the officers still stationed in Eleora, he had instructed the hallways to be emptied the moment their carriage had entered the palace. When they walked her in, not a soul was seen. If Shira had noticed, she did not say a word, but when they arrived in her living quarters, she glanced at him for the first time since they had left the landing grounds. She had smiled slightly when she caught him watching her.

“Thank you,” she whispered, touching him tenderly on the arm. “Thank you all,” she said, turning to the other officers. “Thank you so much.”

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Medium 9780253012098


S. A. An-sky Indiana University Press ePub

THE COMRADES, DISCOURAGED and defeated, made their way back to the Ore Miklet.

Faevich had gone into the shop too early. . . . Kornblat began to explain their failure.

“We should’ve done it in a very different way,” Uler echoed. “We should’ve waited until her father had left. . . .”

“Well, it’s no use talking about what we should’ve or shouldn’t have done,” Faevich interrupted him. “Now we have to consider what to do next.”

“What will we do now? It’s all over!” Kornblat lamented.

“All that’s left is to recite the Kaddish d’Rabbanan,1 and that’s that!” Uler supported him. “Ah! What angers me most is the fact that the old buzzard’s now rejoicing!”

“What infuriates me is that as I left, I didn’t think of punching him in the chest!” Tsiporin added.

“If Sonya Beryasheva is in fact a serious person,” Mirkin suddenly inserted, “then she really doesn’t need this ‘betrothal’ at all. She can escape from her tormentors by an easier and more reliable means. . . . Why can’t she just run away from home?” he asked in a loud voice, looking around inquiringly at all his comrades.

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Medium 9781574411850

let's do

Rebecca Meacham University of North Texas Press PDF


let’s do

had hung low with angry black clouds and they were lost and exhausted, and when they saw the neon-lit “vacancy” sign, they both sighed. They had been young and in-love enough to laugh at the cobwebs, the fusty pictures of flowers outlined in yarn. They had slept under a quilt sewn from old dresses, curling into each other like puppies, or socks.

She had all but forgotten about that trip. A little sound escaped her throat.

“Good?” breathed the interviewer. His tongue probed her ear.

“So good,” Estelle said, raking her nails up his back. She glanced at her watch, though there was no reason to, nowhere that she had to be. By now, her husband was probably home from work, packing boxes, waiting for her to return so he could claim this lamp, that chair. Or he might be unpacking at his new apartment, the first floor of a Queen Anne in the crumbling heart of the city. She hadn’t seen it but he had described it in detail, the paint peeling like eggshells, the shutters askew. A fixer-upper, the kind of place she’d embraced when they first started out. Back then, Estelle had been the kind of girl who looked forward to things. There had been a voice in her head, the voice of countless

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Medium 9781574412710


Tim Johnston University of North Texas Press PDF


She was a good sleeper, a dependable sleeper, but that night

Charlotte woke up with her heart whumping, like a young mother.

There had been something.

She lay in the dark, not breathing. At one window the drapes were shaped by faint light from the street, but at the other there was nothing, no light from the neighbors, no moonlight, and the effect was briefly frightening, as if the wall had fallen away into space, or a black sea.

She drew the alarm clock into focus: 1:36. She had a son who would stay out late, but when he came home he was like a cat, and if she heard him at all it was because she had gotten up to use the washroom, pausing by his door just long enough to hear him clicking at the computer in there, or humming to the iPod, or shhshing Ginny Simms, his girl.

She heard none of this now, nothing at all but the heat pumping invisibly, bloodlike, in the walls of the house. This was late

October, two nights before Halloween, the first truly cold night of the season.

She closed her eyes and the dream she’d been having eddied back to center—a dream of hands, the feel of them, the smell of them; muscle and tendon, palm and finger. Her body, under the bedding, still hummed. She breathed, she slowed, she drifted down.

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