476 Slices
  Title Author Publisher Format Buy Remix
Medium 9781771870702

Winter: Lamp in a Gloom

Ratzlaff, Lloyd Thistledown Press ePub

Lamp in a Gloom

See All Chapters
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.

See All Chapters
Medium 9780892727605

Dana Hamlin, from Temple

Down East Books ePub

George Dennison

Dana Hamlin

See All Chapters
Medium 9781847778772

Trois Jours de Permission

Ford, Ford Madox Carcanet Press Ltd. ePub

Ford wrote this brief article about his leave in Paris during September 1916 a few days later. It was published in the Nation, 19 (30 September 1916), pp. 817–18. A more elaborate account is in No Enemy, pp. 153–63 and 261–2. Both works also describe attending a performance of Delibes’ Lakmé: No Enemy, pp. 165–6 and 194–221. (There is also a brief variant in Return to Yesterday (London, 1931), pp. 151–2.) But the version here gives a vivid impression of the contrasts between military and civilian life. The ferrets are also mentioned in Joseph Conrad, p. 192, and Provence (London, 1938), p. 298.

‘Une petite minute! … a little minute’; the words, uttered by a functionary in evening dress with the features, and far more than the gravity of, a British statesman, consecrate one to a long period of waiting in the reverential and silent atmosphere of a palace of high rooms and tapestried panels. A long period of waiting …. Well, the longest period of waiting that I have known in a life that nowadays is characterized by more waiting than I have ever known. Waiting for the transport; waiting for the bombs to come up; waiting for one’s unit to move; waiting for one’s orders; waiting for the shelling to stop; and, above all, waiting for the shell – the solitary whining shell, the last of three that is due from the methodical German battery miles away on the plain – waiting for that to manifest itself in a black cloud, up there; in an echoing crash, and in a patter, as of raindrops …. Yes, one learns to wait. The most impatient temperament, somewhere in France, will be strait-waistcoated into inaction, into introspection.

See All Chapters
Medium 9780253018595

Burial Ground · Poetry

IU Press Journals Indiana University Press ePub

There are dark places; drunk with grief where water

drizzles. There are wilted flowers and dried wreaths.

There is your grave hidden back there, behind

God’s back. There are clusters of Charles

buried here; neighbours in this family plot.

Two lone wooden stumps mark the grave

where you wait for that marble headstone

etched with your name. There is wild bush

and the broken fence where your nephew

crashed that rented car at your funeral,

when his vision blurred with tears. There are

the marks we leave and those that will be made.

Malika Booker

See All Chapters
Medium 9781927068304

The Sound of One Cow Grazing

Lloyd Ratzlaff Thistledown Press ePub


I know a good place. By day I tramp around its trails and through its bushes, stoop like one of Gideon’s failed soldiers to drink water at its creek, gaze at things that flap and fly there, and listen to others that chirp or shriek or thump. Sometimes I talk to these creatures as if we were all children, and sometimes they reply.

But when the sun sinks below the hills across the river, stillness pervades and the dark closes in, lively critters withdraw to their thickets and nests and holes, and I am alone. There are no conveniences and no diversions — no television, no music, no toilet but an outhouse huddled in a distant black clump of trees: and if I don’t take a bottle of brandy with me, no insulation of any kind against the vastness and silence.

Here I become a boy again. In daylight, adventures beckon: spreading trees are familiar spirits, no creature fails to announce the world’s wonders. But when the place goes dark, the spooks driven off by city lights congregate, and if I’m alone I hear them, too.

See All Chapters
Medium 9781574416367

The “Boys” in the Bunkhouse

Gayle Reaves, Editor UNT Press ePub
Medium 9781574416367

Then the Walls Closed In: The Virginian-Pilot / By Sarah Kleiner Varble

Gayle Reaves, Editor UNT Press PDF

Then the Walls Closed In

The Virginian-Pilot

June 29, 2014

By Sarah Kleiner Varble

Part 1 of 4

Patrick Ryan arrived home from work one day to find his wife glaring at him over the second-floor banister.

Their month-old daughter was stripped to her diaper.

“Something's wrong with the air conditioner,” his wife yelled. “It's

85 degrees up here.”

It was August 2006, and Jennifer Ryan was on maternity leave with their firstborn. Patrick was puzzled. The unit in their new house in Isle of Wight County was only 3 months old.

A couple of years later in Virginia Beach, Liz and Steve Heischober were having a different kind of trouble.

Liz used to stay up until midnight, but she had begun drifting off to sleep after dinner. Her doctors couldn't explain her fatigue.


Best American Newspaper Narratives, Vol. 3

Night after night, as his wife slept in her chair, Steve gave her a nudge and said he was going up to bed. Sometimes, he'd come downstairs hours later and find that she hadn't budged.

See All Chapters
Medium 9780253019059

Hometown & Family

Edited and with an Introduction by Owen Indiana University Press ePub

Back to the Midwest and its long, sad wind—and to a story about a little boy and some wild roses, and a blue racer and a whipping.

CEDAR RAPIDS, Ia.—It was soon after crossing into Iowa, coming south, that I gradually became conscious of the wind.

I don’t know whether you know that long, sad wind that blows so steadily across the thousands of miles of Midwest flat lands in the summertime. If you don’t, it will be hard for you to understand the feeling I have about it. Even if you do know it, you may not understand. Because maybe the wind is only a symbol.

But to me the summer wind in the Midwest is one of the most melancholy things in all life. It comes from so far, and it blows so gently and yet so relentlessly; it rustles the leaves and the branches of the maple trees in a sort of symphony of sadness, and it doesn’t pass on and leave them still; no, it just keeps coming, like the infinite flow of Old Man River.

You could, and you do, wear out your lifetime on the dusty plains with that wind of futility blowing in your face. And when you are worn out and gone, the wind, still saying nothing, still so gentle and sad and timeless, is still blowing across the prairies, and will blow in the faces of the little men that follow you, forever. That is it, the endless of it; it is a symbol of eternity.

See All Chapters
Medium 9781771870801


Forrie, Allan Thistledown Press ePub
“Can ID” by Pauline Holdstock begins as a humourous reflection on what it means to be Canadian and ends with an allegory about the often futile process we put ourselves through in order to define our country.
See All Chapters
Medium 9781771870849

Plastic Flower

Ratzlaff, Lloyd Thistledown Press ePub


ONE NIGHT IN 1964 soon after getting my licence, I was taken to task by my minister for driving recklessly on Main Street. He blocked my way down a claustrophobic staircase between the balcony and main floor of the church one Wednesday night after prayer meeting. We teenagers had knelt on a bare floor that sloped down toward the sanctuary, facing the backs of the benches — they could hardly be called pews — and taken turns reciting our petitions: God bless so-and-so mission-arying in Peru, such-and-such a couple trying to save Indians around Montreal Lake, every acquaintance in “foreign lands and north lands,” as my father divided the world in his prayers at breakfast — bless every one of them. We had entreated God, too, for our wayward relatives in BC and Ontario: “Grant them neither peace nor rest until they return to Thee.” The minister had just heard me pray like this, yet he felt constrained to halt my descent to the parking lot, and admonish me.

“I’ve heard how you squirrelled your tires on Main Street,” he accused, nervously twisting a corner of his flappy leather Bible. And how did I think this was a good witness to the many lost souls around us, or consistent with what I’d just prayed up there? His tone was not angry; but if I was squirrelling tires now, who knew if I wouldn’t be rocking on city bandstands next, like they were doing in Pittsburgh PA?

See All Chapters
Medium 9781847778772

Immediate Effects on the Mind and on Literature

Ford, Ford Madox Carcanet Press Ltd. ePub

From ‘Stocktaking’; ‘I’, transatlantic review, 1:1 (January 1924), pp. 75–6.20

During the late war, for instance, the aggressive and Intellectual classes used to ask unceasingly what purpose was served in ‘trench’ warfare by jumping to it on parade at home. The effect is psychological […]

And the effect of imaginative culture on the natural mind engaged in human affairs is much that of drill on troops afterwards to be engaged in warfare. It affords and inspires confidence; it furnishes you with illustration in argument, knowledge of human nature, vicarious experience. It makes of the intelligent savage – a proper man!

From Great Trade Route, pp. 96–7.

Twenty odd years ago I was in a landscape of mud hills and old, empty food cans and cartridge-cases and old iron and rats and thistles and a corpse or two. It was disagreeable, and at times it grew to be worrying …. An intense worry that filled in all the world and the Huns and Army Headquarters. And when we were in support I used to get a horse and, on one pretext or another, ride for miles in search of a plot of ground that man had left undefiled. I would pretend to be looking for ferrets to destroy the rats with which our lines were infested; or straw for the transport; or better billets for our HQ who were always grumbling at their billets. If I had been able, as Divisional Billeting Officer, to have placed them in Leopold’s Palace of Laeken they would have grumbled that the famous collection of musical instruments contained no saxophone. For their jazz.

See All Chapters
Medium 9780253020659

Conclusion: “White Sea of the Middle” or “Wide Sea to Meddle In”?

Hakim Abderrezak Indiana University Press ePub

The works discussed in Ex-Centric Migrations provide a vision not solely of the other but of the other continent as well. Maghrebi works that treat the notion of clandestinity have presented the European Eldorado in its declination from “a country of light” to a land of disillusionment. It is the latter vision that has been the focus of the contemporary cinematic, literary, and musical productions examined here. In response to the old notion of Eldorado (the French one), which bred mythical stories that emigrants brought with them on their short visits back home, artists have crafted a “new” Eldorado—the Maghreb. The latter construction is a core theme in music such as Raï n’b and in films such as Bensalah’s Il était une fois dans l’oued. This conception of the “new Eldorado” tackled explicitly via musical and cinematic representations is an original one, which lies in sharp contrast to the portrayal of the global South as a place that individuals desire to leave.

See All Chapters
Medium 9780253001795

1. Dreaded Non-Identities of Night: Night and Shadows in Chicana/o Cultural Production

DeGuzmán, María Indiana University Press ePub

How do you make the invisible visible? You take it away.

—Lila Rodriguez in A Day Without a Mexican

The Nighttime of a Day without a Mexican

Of the more than fifty million Latina/os currently within the continental borders of the United States, Mexican Americans have had a long borderlands history—defined by military battles and treaties in the name of U.S. national expansion, by laws, and by daily discriminatory practices—of being treated as the other Americans, los otros americanos. They became aliens in their own land with the 1848 Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo that officially concluded the Mexican-American War and in the years subsequent to that treaty, which involved an Anglo landgrab of previously Mexican areas. In 1971, Chicano attorney, writer, and political activist Oscar “Zeta” Acosta pointedly summed up the situation:

The American government took our country away from us in 1848, when the government of Mexico sold us out. They sold not only the land, but they basically sold us as slaves in the sense that our labor and our land was [sic] being expropriated. The governments never gave us a choice about whether to be American citizens. One night we were Mexican and the next day we were American. This historical relationship is the most important part of the present day relationships, but it’s totally ignored or unknown or rejected by the Anglo society. [emphasis mine]1

See All Chapters
Medium 9781743603604

Lights Out in Hanoi

Berendt, John Lonely Planet Publications ePub

For almost a lifetime, I have been fascinated by the work of the French writer Marguerite Duras, born in Saigon in 1914. Duras has taken me to strange places. I have followed in her footsteps around Southeast Asia, and in France, as if nearness to where she lived would somehow infuse my own writing with the strangeness and difference, the passion, that characterize her work. In the early 1990s, along with my husband Ian, I braved South Vietnam when there was still a wild untamed atmosphere following the war, journeying along the Mekong in an open flat-bottomed boat in search of her family plantation. The better part of twenty years had passed when we set out for Hanoi, the last destination in my Duras quest.

Ian and I met up in Bangkok Airport. He had flown in from Cambodia, where he did aid work, and I from New Zealand. Ian is normally a cheerful traveler, but that day he looked tired and was unusually irritable. By the time we had checked through for our flight to Hanoi, I had begun to worry that dashing from one place to another was an ill-conceived plan. But we seemed past the point of no return and so we boarded.

See All Chapters

Load more