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The raggediest fisherman at the farthermost lake in the most distant corner of a country at the edge of the world went fishing one day when it was neither sunny nor cloudy, neither fair nor foul.
By Maria BozaDecember 1987Richard presses the buzzer. A dry, rasping sound echoes off the cracked, peeling walls and bounces up from the marble vestibule floor that needs cleaning.
By Barbara TurinoDecember 1987I sense that my preacher friend isn’t playing with a full deck. I suspect he views certain people as angels and remembers them as colors.
By John CiminelloNovember 1987“You see?” he said. “This is Saint Peter. I am the Lord Jesus.” The halos lasted only a second. Then they were gone.
By Romulus LinneyNovember 1987During this holiday season, Sharon has gotten into the habit of counting how many of her ex-lovers show up at any given party.
By Kim AddonizioNovember 1987I knew old Wiggins years before he scandalized the area newspapers, because he was part of my childhood, like the pine tree with the tire swing and the forbidden, ancient barn I explored in secret.
By Susan M. WatkinsOctober 1987In the fields you worked in the open sun, sweating like a mule, crawling down the rows on your knees, your back bent and your spine cracking, breathing dust and insecticide fumes.
By James Carlos BlakeOctober 1987I should have known Brian would leave me. I should have felt his restlessness and uncertainty. Instead, I woke up four Mondays ago with only a tattered note for a companion. I was abandoned, surprised, and angry. What good were my powers if I couldn’t predict my own life?
By Deborah ShouseSeptember 1987He knew understanding was coming to him, like the answer to a riddle which has broken its anchor line in the unconscious and is floating up toward consciousness, becoming more illuminated by the light of consciousness.
By Jon RemmerdeSeptember 1987They raised a shout of “Clair,” yelled things he did not understand, aped the way he walked and the awkward, nasal sound of his speech, made fun of how he wore his pants high on his corpulent midsection, called him “Baby Huey” and laughed.
By Robert EbischAugust 1987Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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