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Chapter 4 Second Year of My Lonely Condition

William Williams Indiana University Press ePub

About a month after I had began my second year I had a very odd adventure, as thus. One evening as I was sitting on the shore, and at that time about two miles from my Cave, all at once I heard a great snort as I thought among the bushes. I jumped up and ran down to the boat as fast as my leggs could convey me. After my first alarm was a little over I began to reflect within myself what this could possibly be; and in this mood I paddled along shore toward my home, keeping a proper distance off shore fearing a second alarm. But just as I passed a short bay to my great astonishment I thought I beheld a troop of Indians marching along shore right abreast of me. Now I was terrified indeed. The first thing I did was to lay along in the canoa least they should espy me, and thus observe their motions—but I was soon undecieved by discovering them to be a train of twenty odd Deer. Now as I lay with my head raised up a little my foot happened to tumble a shell. This caused the foremost to halt and stare directly at the Canoa. On this he gave two strong snorts, when they all scampered up the beach into the woods. Now all my fears vanished, and I put away for home as fast as I could. Nothing but the Deer ran in my head for several days togather. As I had no Gun or ammunition I could not expect to succeed as a Hunter so gave all thoughts of a Venison repast quite over for that time.

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Chapter Twenty-Five

Gregory Schwipps Indiana University Press ePub

Loss,” the preacher said, trying to look him in the eyes, “this is not something God meant for us to understand infallibly.” They sat on the hard pew in the little church on the edge of Logjam. The preacher’s eyes were magnified by his glasses and any time Frank tried to look elsewhere the preacher would touch him on the knee and affix him with a fresh stare. Frank had never spoken to this man and he’d barely set foot inside these walls. There’d been a few weddings and funerals—only funerals over the last ten years—and this particular preacher was new. He’d served elsewhere, though, because he was older than Frank. The sanctuary looked the same: chips of plaster had fallen off the low ceiling and Jesus hung from a cross on the wall. It was not an astounding likeness, Frank assumed.

He sat there and examined the curve of his cane handle, held upright between his knees. Metal worn smoother than any machine could sand it. Only a leaning hand could do such work, and only over years.

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Medium 9780253018175

Death by Refrigerator

B.J. Hollars Break Away Book Club Edition ePub

When inventor Oliver Evans first conceived of his “refrigeration machine” in 1805, he never dreamed it could be a killer. He, much like Jacob Perkins and John Gorrie (both of whom would soon improve upon the design), dreamed simply of extending the preservation properties of food. None of them imagined their invention had deadly potential, providing a perfect-sized trap for a curious child who dared step inside.

I first learned of refrigerator deaths while serving as a camp counselor in a small country town in Indiana. The victim was a boy named Bobby Watson, who in the summer of 1968—while lost in the throes of a game of hide-and-seek—wedged himself into an abandoned fridge left to rust on the edge of the dock. A maintenance man wandered past moments later, tied the fridge to the dock, and heaved it into the water, wholly unaware of the child hiding within.

The fridge, we informed our campers during weekly retellings, was meant to serve as an anchor for the docks, though for Bobby it served as a coffin instead.

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Medium 9780060727864

The Mysterious Stranger

Twain, Mark HarperCollins ePub (DRM)

I.

It was in 1590—winter. Austria was far away from the world, and asleep; it was still the Middle Ages in Austria, and promised to remain so forever. Some even set it away back centuries upon centuries and said that by the mental and spiritual clock it was still the Age of Belief in Austria. But they meant it as a compliment, not a slur, and it was so taken, and we were all proud of it. I remember it well, although I was only a boy; and I remember, too, the pleasure it gave me.

Yes, Austria was far from the world, and asleep, and our village was in the middle of that sleep, being in the middle of Austria. It drowsed in peace in the deep privacy of a hilly and woodsy solitude where news from the world hardly ever came to disturb its dreams, and was infinitely content. At its front flowed the tranquil river, its surface painted with cloud-forms and the reflections of drifting arks and stone-boats; behind it rose the woody steeps to the base of the lofty precipice; from the top of the precipice frowned a vast castle, its long stretch of towers and bastions mailed in vines; beyond the river, a league to the left, was a tumbled expanse of forest-clothed hills cloven by winding gorges where the sun never penetrated; and to the right a precipice overlooked the river, and between it and the hills just spoken of lay a far-reaching plain dotted with little homesteads nested among orchards and shade trees.

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Lunch Date

Fawcett, Katherine Thistledown Press ePub

Lunch Date

THE GIRL AND HER MOTHER ARE at the usual table in the usual restaurant for their once a month lunch date. The girl orders a virgin rum and coke and the waiter laughs. The mother orders a gin and tonic. “Make mine slutty,” she says and he laughs again, louder. The girl’s face gets hot so she looks down and clicks her thumbnails together and does not look up again until the waiter finishes filling their water glasses and leaves.

The restaurant is dark even though it’s the middle of a sunny spring day. There is a wall of mirrors with crooked gold marble lines. There are carnations in a small vase and an unlit candle on the table.

It’s Thursday, so the other seventh graders will be doing track, but the girl brought a note and was dismissed thirty minutes early. This is good because she sucks at track.

“They want you to think it’s happy hour,” says the mother leaning on her elbows, her chin in her hands. “That’s why they keep the lights down low. Plus it’s more flattering.” Some mothers have cleavage where their breasts squeeze together. This one’s like an old chicken. She has a bony space between her breasts.

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