Winter 2009
Is this the best of times or the worst of times for readers and writers?
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Kansas is a cold dessert, I say. No, Kansas is a tongue depressor, he says.
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My first true love was Underwood, my mother’s typewriter.
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At night the voices on the patio sound like small darting birds.
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She leaned back to accommodate the sweet delirium of his hands.
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My brother stealing all the lightbulbs, my parents live without light.
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The hut was cluttered with the skulls and bones of small animals.
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