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Articles from Vol. 31, No. 2, October

One afternoon, I curled myself into a corner of a pub with two books on the table and one pencil knotted in my hair. Earlier that day, I delivered this poem into the outstretched hand of my lover. I waited for a word in return. I still wait. I waited...
Betty Parker
She was, my Father said, a Bible Basher. Her kind never gave up. I wished he hadn't said that because I believed in God and miracles. Jesus had made a cripple walk, while my father was an undistinguished man. I was too little to tell him to hush his...
The River
All that was left afterward was the sound of the river. That and some vague ache and, perhaps, a feeling of wrongness about what had happened. Still, the river had acted as something cleansing. Back then I was a country girl I lived in a town filled...
Type-Writers My mother used a mechanical Remington, black-keyed and heavy, it came with a clip-over metal-grey rounded case. After my birth my father used it to type up his lectures. I looked at the ribbon--three stripes of black,...
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