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We lived in a walk-up apartment house. The three of us would anticipate his footsteps, listening for them up the tiled stairs and across the tiled floor. He had a variety of walks: a confident, sober stride; a penitential limp; a self-assured, rocking swagger.
By Edward WahlOctober 1989I live alone. Other men might be lonely. But who can notice what might be absent when other things are present?
By Andrew RamerAugust 1989Again and again he flew against the window so mercilessly I was scared he would break his neck. Then his eyes glowed with wrath.
By Josip NovakovichJune 1989My friend is rushing toward Jasmine. Her scream reverberates in my mind, with a quality of despair that surprises me, as if she knows something I don’t.
By Anais SalibianFebruary 1989Enos had died that year, pathetically, and Jethro had seen in his eyes before they closed only relief that he no longer had to keep a parallel set of double-entry books for that God. That God was busy all the time, balancing numbers. Jethro had no desire for His heaven, and no fear of His hell.
By Tim FarringtonAugust 1988I needed to see the stallion’s body once I knew that he was dead. Nate had found him down by the creek while I was away.
By Susan M. WatkinsJanuary 1988December 1987Our language has wisely sensed the two sides of being alone. It has created the word “loneliness” to express the pain of being alone. And it has created the word “solitude” to express the glory of being alone.
Paul Tillich
The Eternal Now
Wandering the fields, rendezvousing in a cowshed, getting out the paper dolls
By Our ReadersMarch 1987Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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