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I am walking my dog when it happens. The woman does not see me. The woman does not see my dog. The woman points her car my way and guns it, and when I see she doesn’t see me—doesn’t see my bright blue shirt nor my arm waving ‘hello neighbor’ in the air nor my big yellow lab standing at the side of her driveway—I dive to my right and the bumper of her car clips my hip and I tumble down and over the newly-mowed grass of her lawn and the next thing I know I’m lying there, just lying there, pushing to get up and looking at my dog looking down at me with her tail wagging, wagging wagging wagging. 1,484 more words
Confession: probably my biggest pet peeve on the planet is when people start a question with “Am I the only one who…?” No. You’re not. You’re not the only one who writes that way, reads that way, likes that food, likes that band, thinks Benedict Cumberbatch sounds like a… 1,063 more words
It is too easy to get caught up in the process, sometimes, of what we do. We forget why we started in the first place. This letter, from Sarah, arrived for us one day, and we all wondered what we might have to say to someone who was so earnestly seeking advice. 1,303 more words
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As Mark Twain once said, “‘The report of my death was an exaggeration.”
But, I must say, it was a bit of an odd and eery moment when the breaking news flashed across my cell phone, telling me John Nash was killed in a car accident in New Jersey. 892 more words
A recapitulation. In which is reported an archaeologist’s daily field routine at the excavation. 1,588 more words
“On August 3, 1918, Major Harvey was transferred to the 103rd Field Artillery, and assigned to the second battery. With this battery he went into position September llth, participating in St. 438 more words
Andrea Potos’s poem, “Each Self” won the James Hearst Poetry Prize in 2004. Her poem is featured in issue 289.2, Spring 2004.
Notes from the author: As my daughter is now on the verge of leaving for college far away from home, I reflect again on what she inspired in me when I wrote this poem years ago: all the invisible, infinitesimal, yet totally inescapable changes that propel us forward, willingly or not, into new lives. 204 more words
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Contrary to the impression often given by modern religious zealots who advocate a return to ‘traditional Irish values’ in matters of sexual and moral behavior, early Irish society was unequivocal in it’s recognition of, and support for, multiple marriage and divorce.
One of modern liberalism’s biggest problems is that we have taken after the Bush Administration in allowing euphemisms to redefine concepts that are already well-defined. Why, the U.S. 1,370 more words
My perspective on David Letterman is a little different, I think, than most of his other frequent-but-really-not-that-big-a-deal guests. For one thing, while I can still be freshly awestruck by his intelligence and his creative genius, I like his humanity even more. 1,725 more words
We’re responsive creatures, always yearning for some kind of carnal or spiritual fulfillment. So many of our conversations are dedicated to that one question: What makes us feel alive? 486 more words
Photo: an illustration by Eric Battle and John Jennings from Nnedi Okorafor’s The Book of the Phoenix.
A month ago, with the Hugo fracas in full swing, an editor at 1,181 more words