We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use.
We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use.
Enos had died that year, pathetically, and Jethro had seen in his eyes before they closed only relief that he no longer had to keep a parallel set of double-entry books for that God. That God was busy all the time, balancing numbers. Jethro had no desire for His heaven, and no fear of His hell.
By Tim FarringtonAugust 1988We keep trying to find out. We look at the present and wonder about the past, about how we got here. It’s a question much asked; most people don’t think it’s possible to answer. But the answer is simple. It was Father.
By Donald N. S. UngerAugust 1988I’ve warned Mama not to tell her story today. Mama has a visitor, a Mrs. Thompson from her Sunday School class. First Baptist believes in staying in touch.
By Candace PerryJuly 1988The light is off in the hallway. It’s been off for a month and the first floor tenant, Mrs. Gaynor, has complained to the landlord. Over and over.
By Rosanna StaffaJuly 1988Our favorite game was called “Spy on Stella.” We loved to watch her when she thought she was alone and unobserved. It was our way of having power over her, for the few moments she dozed in the green chair in the living room or stood in the kitchen cooking, singing along with Jack Jones on the stereo.
By Kim AddonizioJune 1988Jenny sat inside the roar of the plane, concentrating on distracting herself. She was flying to Seattle in response to one of those phone calls during which the world momentarily freezes in its orbit. “I’m a friend of your father’s,” the woman had said.
By Kay Levine SpencerJune 1988Robert DeNiro is getting into character. He’s been talking to his agent about doing some kind of working-class movie, something set in the steel mills of Gary, Indiana, or the factories of New Jersey.
By Juliet WittmanMay 1988We were poor and could not afford for her the soil of easy growth. I was a young mother, I was a distracted mother. There were the other children pushing up, demanding.
By Tillie OlsenMay 1988There was a scarecrow named Sam. He lived in a field of corn, with no shelter from the sun and snow. He wore an old felt hat — gray — and a faded black suit jacket.
By SparrowApril 1988When she first sees Sol, he’s telling stories at a party, a party for musicians. All the players sit in the living room, drinking beer and telling jokes.
By Judy Katz-LevineApril 1988Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
Subscribe Today