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Even with two thick coverlets over the blankets, her pelvic bone pressed like a wooden hanger against my cheek; I was sure it would leave a red mark. She had been eating for nearly two weeks now. How thin could she have been when she was first released?
By Elisa JenkinsSeptember 1991Bob’s friend Ken was supposed to meet him at the Internationalist around nine that very night. But when Ken opened the creaky screen door, he found Bob sprawled on the floor, bleeding and unconscious. He’d been shot in the head. Ken called for an ambulance and the police, and Bob was rushed to the hospital, but he never regained consciousness. He died the following day.
By Sy SafranskyJuly 1991My God, he was a beautiful man. The way he sat on a horse. Or the way he rolled a cigarette. Charlie Freeman. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.
By Myra EppingMarch 1991A three-thousand-pound slab, a pair of sunglasses and a book, a sprouting of wings
By Our ReadersMarch 1991“The Fat Fucker showed up,” he said, mopping his plate with a biscuit. Robert nodded, acknowledging that he knew who Edsel was talking about, but wasn’t ready to speak himself until he’d concluded a particularly sensual moment with Ellen’s cooking.
By John C. RichardsFebruary 1991My anticipation was high. Life picks up when she’s around. I remember what I went to college for. With her, my brain gets buzzing again. I had been saving up all the garbage of my life for her to hear so I could get it sorted out.
By Judith H. WindtNovember 1990A repressed memory, a custody battle, a summer on the prairies
By Our ReadersNovember 1990I turned my head slowly to sneak a look at Mary, Annie, and Millie. They were staring intently at their dominoes, their lips pursed tightly together. It was clear to me that they had not told Ray he was dead.
By Jeannine OwensOctober 1990“Gringo watching,” I call it. I’ve been living in Mexico on and off for twenty years, and slowly I’m developing this prejudice, this terrible prejudice, against Americans. “They’re so pale and wan — in such a hurry,” I think, trying to forget I’m one of them.
By Lorenzo W. MilamAugust 1990Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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