998 Slices
Medium 9781771870665

Mabel and Arnie

Fawcett, Katherine Thistledown Press ePub

Mabel and Arnie

June 1

Dear Mabel,

You win. I get it. You’ve made your point. You wear the pants around here. There. I know how much it means to you to hear me grovelling. Fine. I’ll beg, if that’s what it takes for you to realize where you belong. Where your responsibilities lie.

I almost broke my neck climbing on the kitchen chair to take down the blasted smoke detector. Thing is so sensitive a man can’t even fry an egg without getting the whole fire department out. One of the fellows laughed at that fridge magnet you’ve got: Think like a Man, Act like a Lady, Work like a Dog. Why don’t you take your own advice? I wonder how “ladylike” Mr. Fireman would think it is for a wife to leave her husband and go off gallivanting for days on end?

Enough is enough.


June 2

Dear Sweetheart,

Linda stopped by but I didn’t invite her in. I told her you were in the bath. She said it wasn’t like you to have a bath before lunch and I told her you weren’t feeling yourself. Lord, that woman pokes around more than a rat in a Chinese restaurant.

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Medium 9781574413199

Wherever You Are, You're Already Gone

Geoff Schmidt University of North Texas Press PDF

Wherever You Are,

You’re Already Gone


er second child Joshua will shout out “No, no, no!” in his sleep and she will hear him from her workroom. She will turn immediately from her sewing machine, from the bolts of bright cloth and the fat spools of thread that surround her. Afternoon light will slant crazily through the windows. When she gets to the living room where he sleeps on the couch beneath a tattered afghan, he will already be back in another, better dream. She will not know this. She will smooth his hair away from his forehead.

He will be dreaming of huge, friendly dogs circling him in a green grassy treeless field laced with goldenrod.

She is eighteen, and in love. Bobby is a linebacker for the Golden

Hurricanes. She loves him primarily because he loves her, though neither of them will ever truly know this. They are sitting in the Red Lobster, eating shrimp smothered in butter and lemon.

Something that is not hunger rolls as lazy as a fish inside of her.

It is a Friday night. She asked for this. She asked for dinner out somewhere. She wanted a restaurant. She wants the smells, the tastes, the people surrounding them. She wants waiters saying yes, yes, yes, at once, calling him “sir.” She wants to imagine this part of it, this future. Waiters waltzing about them: yes at once yes at once yes. He looks across the table at her. He says, “Maybe we can go to the Fairview after.” He smiles: goofy, shy, eager. It is there again, the wash, the roll. She imagines small shrimp eyes

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Medium 9780253329561

Chapter Three

Scott Russell Sanders Indiana University Press ePub

The only troublesome items Zuni had not allowed the surgeons to replace were her eyes. Both lungs, one kidney, various joints, even the valves of her heart, those she had been content to let go, for they did not seem to be intrinsic parts of her. Let the doctors fiddle with her ears or pancreas, she would not care. But if she ever gave up her eyes, the ones she had used to design the Enclosure, to memorize the contours of earth, to trace the shifting tones of daylight, she would no longer be Zuni Franklin. Would the surgeons consent to be fitted with new hands? They should have realized that an architect lives in her eyes.

So when the drugs no longer cleansed the blight from her retina, she had to put up with dimming vision. And when she announced her plans to retire from the Institute for Global Design at age seventy-six—nine years early—everyone assumed her balky eyesight was to blame.

“Are you afraid blindness would spoil your work at the Institute?” a video reporter asked her.

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Medium 9780253008381

Indian Village

B.J. Hollars Indiana University Press ePub

It was the summer of 1975, and we were supposed to be feeling good.

Gerald Ford had just put an end to the war in Vietnam, and even more exciting, through the hail and the sideways rain, our hero, Bobby Unser, had somehow managed to be the first to limp his way past the checkered flag in Indy. Far less impressive was my own recent limping-completion of the seventh grade, an accomplishment whose only reward was leaving me stranded somewhere in the foggy terrain of my crushing adolescence, another casualty in a long line of those already infected.

Through no fault of their own, boys who had once been stars on their little league teams suddenly found themselves stretched and refashioned, stricken with nicknames like “string bean” and “crater face” with no signs of letting up. One morning they woke wholly dispossessed of coordination – their feet suddenly replaced with clown’s feet, their legs the legs of giraffes.

Our symptoms were no different than those faced by others our age, leading us to believe that our shared suffering was likely the result of some top-secret government conspiracy (someone had poisoned the water supply!), leaving us susceptible to growing older.

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Medium 9781574414660

Waltz on East 6th Street

Tehila Lieberman University of North Texas Press PDF

Waltz on East 6th Street


Years ago, Aunt Renata squeezed a picture into my hand when my mother wasn’t looking. Aunt Renata wasn’t really my aunt, but rather someone to whom my mother had clung like a sister, like blood.

In the picture, my mother is thin but she is wearing a pale belted dress with a flared skirt and she is smiling. That is, her mouth is smiling. Her eyes are unreadable, her cheeks taut.

There is a tree just behind her and the smallest hint of a fence.

I have studied the picture a thousand times trying to figure out whether this was in one of the camps. The dress belies that possibility but still the fence looks menacing, cage-like and my mother’s expression is strained and odd. On the back of the picture, in German, and in a masculine script, it says only “Spring.”

Aunt Renata said she had found the picture when they were liberated from the camp. She won’t tell me anything else.


My mother was a beautiful woman. Even now it’s obvious—her bearing still regal, her cheekbones high and proud. She never talks about her experiences and her silence walks the house like the ghosts that accompany her. She was 17 and had snuck out

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