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This is what faith looks like when it is acted upon: the good and right way is followed no matter what happens, because those who follow it believe it is good and right; indeed, they follow it even when life is too hard to think much about the good and the right.
By Michael NessetDecember 1989I had seen the boy many times before, but never really looked. I did not actually know his name until the day he was being escorted to the front office by a smug-looking assistant principal.
By Kenneth KlonskyNovember 1989Lying awake in the gray hours of the morning, I heard a hissing little voice, insinuating, familiar, from the depths of my own being. What it was saying, over and over again, was simply, “Metastasis. Metastasisss.”
By Juliet WittmanOctober 1989Hitting your sister, watching the rice boil, jumping over the subway turnstiles
By Our ReadersOctober 1989A good friend of mine died, of AIDS, a few months back. I went to her, in the hospital, the day before she passed. This was near Boston, in a suburb.
By SparrowSeptember 1989This is the part where Karen Wheeler jumped in and turned the world around, whether because Karen Wheeler is one fine bowler herself and enjoys as much as anybody kicking the butts of the folks over in Greensboro, or whether, as I’ve said, her heart has spots soft for Gus, I don’t know.
By Terry L. TomaSeptember 1989We sat in the sun, me naked and soaking it up, Lorenne in long sleeves and with a straw hat keeping all ultra-violet rays from her sensitive face. She pointed at my bushy crotch and said, “You lose all the hair down there, you know. You look like a little girl again.”
By Gina CovinaAugust 1989They are lovers. He told me last night at 3 a.m., after we had taken several long walks, talking and coming to no resolution. After weeks of fighting, absolutely at cross-purposes, as though we were speaking entirely different languages.
By Catherine MadsenJune 1989Clea took my hand and we swung arms like little kids. At college, I would never hold hands walking down the street. But here, I didn’t care who saw me or what they thought.
By Deborah ShouseNovember 1988My 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 1988Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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