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It must have been a real publicity bust for Marilyn and her people. I mean, here it is thirty years later, and I’ve never seen anything about it in all the flood of words about her since.
By Robert ChastainJuly 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 1989Willie Mays was only thirteen years old, but already center field was his private domain. His mitt seemed to have radar installed in it, registering the trajectory and velocity of the ball. All Willie had to do was glide into place, flip out his glove, and the ball would land there, trapped in leather.
By Rob SullivanApril 1989At church camp, in a air raid shelter in wartime England, on an old flatbed trailer
By Our ReadersNovember 1988Oron flanks left with the small platoon of formally dressed sailors, all in ceremonial blue wool, all armed with parade M-1 rifles. The overcast sky is ashen on this mid-November day, and the wind pulsates bleakly over this little land of the dead.
By Jerry OglethorpeSeptember 1988She was chaste and chased. Miriam saw the men looking at her as she dove into the swimming pool, her body a golden promise.
By Deborah ShouseAugust 1988In retrospect I have realized that I could not have been more ready for the first section of the Course workbook, described in its introduction as “dealing with the undoing of the way you see now. . . .” Because my life had not been working, the way I saw things was quite ready to be undone.
By D. Patrick MillerAugust 1988Opening my legs for her wasn’t easy. / She was hunched and burnt-looking. / Her whole face puckered toward her mouth. / She spoke with words like “dirty shame” / while she gave her absolution — / a small, white cloth inserted / into my womb.
By Cedar KoonsJune 1988Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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