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Then, a mist drifted up in front of my eyes. It started gray. It began to burn, to get redder and redder and the words I heard rolling from my lips were like the words my grandpa knew. They were holy words, words of the old prophets. Wanton. Strumpet. Whore. Sister of the serpent, angel of evil, Satan’s bitch, vessel of filth, pestilence of desire, demoness eater of the soul.
By Mary SojournerJuly 1991A personal visit from God could turn my life around. Then it wouldn’t matter that I was terrible at dodge ball, that I wore homemade dresses, that I didn’t have a Captain Midnight lunch box, that I had the lowest cookie-sales record in the Brownies. They’d point at me on the playground. That’s Ashley. God came to see her. Yeah. She told us all about it at show and tell.
By Ashley WalkerJuly 1991Killing God; discovering orgasms; feeling connected by a giant, invisible web linking all things
By Our ReadersJuly 1991We were seven years old. The Church believed we had reached the age of reason. I believed that when the priest placed the first holy wafer on my tongue, if I didn’t swallow it, if I could keep it from melting in my mouth, then when I stepped outside the church I would rise into the sky.
By Isabella Russell-IdesJuly 1991A harmonious inner awakening is characterized by a sense of mental illumination that brings insight into the meaning and purpose of life; it dispels doubts, offers the solution to many problems, and gives an inner source of security.
By Roberto AssagioliJune 1991This was it — the cool, very weird thing I had been hoping for. I was about to go to a strip joint with a Pentecostal Christian mentally ill recovering alcoholic young lady. These are the moments I live for.
By David Alan DobsonJanuary 1991Father Mark replaced the chapel’s crucifix with a dead pigeon he had found on the highway. Many of his parish were outraged.
By Mark David DeBoltDecember 1990One day the cocoon hatched. But there was no butterfly. Instead, hundreds and hundreds of baby praying mantes spread across my dresser top and marched down the side.
By Susan A. KlimczakOctober 1990Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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