998 Chapters
Medium 9781574414660

Anya’s Angel

Tehila Lieberman University of North Texas Press PDF

Anya’s Angel

M

y mother once told me that the way she understood it, we were living in the only existing physical universe, which was but the palest reflection of the many non-physical universes that existed. That there was, however, a throughflow between the worlds, and just as some spirits and acts of the divine trickled down to us, so did our actions affect the other layers of worlds.

It was late when she said this, past midnight. She was sitting in the kitchen, a notebook in front of her. She had decided to study kabbalah. She couldn’t talk to my father about these things. He had built a reputation on his agnosticism and his particular bent had grown a name, had turned his name into a noun. So when I would come upon my mother in the kitchen at all hours of the night, her glasses sliding down her nose, the books open before her, it was like coming upon her in an affair, only worse; a body is much more easily disengaged than angels and demigods and the remnants of worlds that now clung to her. I wondered if perhaps she was going to die, if she knew and was not telling us and needed to map out the realms into which she thought she might step. I wondered if perhaps it was to escape us, if we exhausted her—the constant stream of my father’s scholarship, my own incessant wanderings and

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Medium 9781574416473

Void of Course

Polly Buckingham University of North Texas Press ePub

I drag the suitcase through the rainy street, cursing and muttering. It scratches and thumps on the pavement because one of the back wheels is busted. Henry's carrying a laundry bag over his shoulder, and it's got a lot more crap in it than the suitcase. I always pack too much when I visit home, but Henry, he hasn't complained once. This is one night I'm sure glad he's around. I wouldn't have wanted to leave home alone, wouldn't have wanted to be here by myself, on this rainy Seattle street, between the projects and downtown, cars spraying puddles onto sidewalks, old men screaming at themselves and junkies screaming at each other.

The rain comes down steadily. Is there a moon at all? Maybe my sister could have warned me about this night, too. She would have come up with some far-out reason why I just should have kept my mouth shut. Of course, I probably wouldn't have listened—I'd never listened before. So I wonder now why I keep expecting the faces of women on buses to be her face. Why I expect her deep voice to call to me from across an empty room. I expect her to find me in the street. “Angie,” she'd say, “what are you doing?”

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Medium 9780253006837

22: Bashir Binladen

Abdourahman A. Waberi Indiana University Press ePub

22

BASHIR BINLADEN

WAR INTO OVERTIME on the field now. President brought in a lot-lot draftees to replace all the dead. And then Scud 2, it start talking negotiations. The chiefs went quick-quick into town to get armchairs, A/Cs an radios. Ran like rabbits to pick up armchairs before their friends. Chiefs of Scud-there, they so-so hungry they'd eat their rebel boots. President so happy, he decorated the wounded, soldiers without arms, soldiers without legs, children without papa an mama. He accepted wounded rebels in big hospital to make buddy-buddy with second-in-command of Eternal Opponent. So it real peace now. Cept Eternal Opponent left for Paris to take refuge, he said war-there not over, said Scud 2 sold out corrupt. Him, watch out he gonna throw Scud 3 onto the field now.

Hey, that true truth cause ambush start again at Randa, Ambado, As-Dara, an all. So us we stay stuck in military positions at Dikhil, Tadjoura, Obock, an in the Mabla. We defensive forwards to save the sovereignty and gains of the united and indivisible nation, that fat rich language like French head of diplomacy talk. So all that-there, not too bad for us, right? Me, that's how I kept my job. All the guys relax; we have fun after we cried a lot cause of buddies dead on the sideline like Housseini in Adaylou, the one who bought and sold the pink pills. Everybody knows the pills-there come direct from Mogadishu; they love pills there too much so they can keep on with fierce war. Normal, right? But you can't make fun of the other monkey's cunt when your own ass-there naked too, even. Somalians, they in deep shit, but we got our problems too. The whole world saying: Somalians, Africans, all a bunch of savages make civil war all the time. Well, gotta understand us. What you expect when politicians-there they pick up all the pots an chow? When they eat the skin off the nape-a your neck. You pick up rifle, that's all. Us, we don't got comfort, villa, car, pay vacation like French, English, an even Norwegians who're nice cause they give NGO money an keep their trap shut. Me I say if a big white guy he wanna take my place, I give it right away an go screw his wife an daughter. That way it democracy between us. I give my place an he take my place here. Then I take his wife. Tie, ball in midfield. Be serious now and stop that crap about rightsaman, rightsawoman, rightsababies. We got a right to the good life too, don't we? Sick of drinking our own sweat. Draftees wanna admire shooting stars too, cept what they see's tracer bullets singing sweet little songs like this: “C'mere my little honey, come this way, been waiting for you for a long long time.” Draftees, they like that old camel the family gonna kill to eat him cause he's too-too old. The old camel, he say to chief of camp: “I worked for you all my life. I marched, marched, and marched to carry your tent and your merchandise. You got all you needed out of my back, now you wanna eat my meat and bones. After that you still get more out of me cause you'll take my skin an you'll make shoes with it, right?” So there you are, us draftees like ole camel-there cept us, we younger. That's all. Gotta stop bringing tears to my eyes. I close parenthesis.

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Medium 9781574415650

Grip

Becky Adnot-Haynes University of North Texas Press ePub

I love the pole vault because it is a professor’s sport. One must not only run and jump, but one must think. Which pole to use, which height to jump […] I love it because the results are immediate and the strongest is the winner. Everyone knows it. In everyday life that is difficult to prove.

—Sergey Bubka, 1988

When Ewan began pole vaulting again, he did it secretively, furtively, a thing he held inside his chest until it pulsed—like a family secret, or a lie. Lucky for him, it was a sport well-suited to solitude: You didn’t need someone to hit ground balls to you, to rebound missed shots, to return your serves. It had been eight years since his last vault—it was hardly a sport of casual pursuit—and he missed it. Really missed it. Standing at the end of the runway before his first jump, he felt a buildup of energy course through his limbs, the sensation so visceral that he closed his eyes and simply let himself feel the weight of the pole resting in his hands, that lovely feeling of anticipation. It was the day after he and Cora decided, officially, to start trying for a baby, him making a nervous joke as she pulled him to her that it was time to see if his boys could swim.

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Medium 9780253019028

The Dragon Can’t Dance

IU Press Journals Indiana University Press ePub

Mother Lisa Revlon (Fem Queen with mother). From the Fireflies, Baltimore series. ©2011/2012 Frédéric Nauczyciel.

THE FIRST TIME I danced, I hated it. Six years old, skinny as a string bean, shy, observant, the last thing I wanted was to be pulled into my nana’s long, strong arms and swept onto the makeshift dance floor at her birthday party. My hair was tightly braided, laced with the new gold and white beads Mama bought just for the occasion. My freshly oiled temples smelled like heaven, hurt like hell. Coconut and mango braids throbbed with the thunk, thunka-thunka that thumped from wood veneer speakers sprawled across two wobbly card tables in a corner of the garden. Nana threw back her head and pranced, that’s right, pranced past my two uncles, my sisters, Papa and Mama, past all her old neighbors and church friends, and rolled her ample hips like a much younger woman. I was scandalized! Everyone clapped and howled at the vision, bellies full of roti and spicy jerk chicken. Nana wore red. And she looked amazing, a juicy hibiscus blossom in her hair.

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