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My heart bristled a little around the edges at the mention of Anna, but it was more like the wings of a bird, hit and dead on the highway, whose feathers flutter a moment from the movement of a passing Chevy.
By Natalie GoldbergNovember 1988At church camp, in a air raid shelter in wartime England, on an old flatbed trailer
By Our ReadersNovember 1988It was a perfect day, the sky clear, as blue and true as a pledge of love. On the campus, the magnolias were in bloom, the huge, creamy-white flowers richly fragrant. Spring was everywhere, shamelessly beautiful, wet lips laughing, hair unpinned.
By Sy SafranskyOctober 1988The Alphabet Lady; a broad, black, shiny feather; a penny on the tip of the lion’s nose
By Our ReadersOctober 1988September 1988Yet no matter how deeply I go down into myself my God is dark, and like a webbing made of a hundred roots, that drink in silence.
Rainer Maria Rilke
April 1988That sudden and ill-timed love affair may be compared to this: you take boys somewhere for a walk; the walk is jolly and interesting — and suddenly one of them gorges himself with oil paint.
Anton Chekhov
When 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 1988I was flirting more that summer than ever before or since, but I had a dull and temporary job at a convenience store, with the prospect of serious employment in the fall.
By Dana BranscumApril 1988Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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