THE DAY THEY BURNED THE BOOKS by Jean Rhys - Dominica Source: Tigers Are Better-Looking (1960s, collection of stories). My friend Eddie was a small, thin boy. You could see the blue veins in his wrists and temples. People said that he had consumption and wasn't long for this world. I loved, but sometimes despised him. His father, Mr Sawyer, was a strange man. Nobody could make out what he was doing in our part of the world at all. He was not a planter or a doctor or a lawyer or a banker
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August 1793, I awoke from the loud screams of children as they chased each other around the dirt-covered brick floors. Chickens clucked, geese honked, and dogs barked. I sat up from the wooden, splintery, unsoothing bench. My back ached and I barely could find anything to eat. I was blessed to have left-overs or offerings from people around me coming from the market. I had no home, no job, no money, and no family. My mother and sister had caught yellow fever, very slowly and painfully. They
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governed the reality of time and space, and he called it down. With a word of pure magick, time and space itself bowed to Quinen, and it shifted before him. The jifarin’s massive hammer of a fist, instead of hitting him, slammed instead into the brick wall beside him. Quinen’s heart hammered in his chest. Exhilaration pumped through him. He grinned. The jifarin swung its other hand toward Quinen; he responded in kind. He shook his left arm. The tattoos he had implanted onto it glowed, humming with
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I shall introduce the origins of fused glass art, detailing where and when Toots Zynsky and Klaus Moje appear in relation to the movement. I shall also introduce their contemporaries and discover how the artists have influenced (and been influenced by) their peers. Towards the end of the dissertation I intend to see what the future holds for the artists, their work and the artistic movement as a whole. My conclusions shall be based on what I have learned from this dissertation and how the artists
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us, in and out of our 200-year-old originally Episcopalian school. We sweep you with our eyes as if you were a landscape. We've seen everything the world has to offer, and we've dismissed it. We lean back in the pews, our heads against the brick wall, our feet planted widely in front of us if we are wearing jeans—worn jeans that we say we've had since we were ten. If we're wearing miniskirts, we cross our long legs and tuck one foot behind the other calf, like CJ told us she once saw Anne Sexton
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(Wesley's POV) After talking with Willa, I decided to go get some food then head to the house. David shouldn't be here yet so I can finish packing my things and leave for good. When I got to the house, I opened the door with my silver key and headed inside, overhearing the television playing and bottles clanking together. I step out of view from the living room, my heart racing. Why is he home? He should still be at work, I thought, as I turned to see how many bottles of beer there were. I turned
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“Dear everyone, If you are reading this letter, then I went through with my suicidal thoughts; I’ve died. I don’t want to go any further into this before I say something: this is not anyone’s fault. I was not bullied into this, and my home life was not terrible. I just couldn’t fight the depression anymore. Every day I would wake up, I would go through my day, and I would know that it was just another day wasted. In the end I realized that I wasn’t getting anywhere; thoughts started to grow that
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FAHRENHEIT 451 by Ray Bradbury This one, with gratitude, is for DON CONGDON. FAHRENHEIT 451: The temperature at which book-paper catches fire and burns PART I IT WAS A PLEASURE TO BURN IT was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of
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of its guests. There was neither wind nor dust in the Armenian's rooms, but it was just as unpleasant, stifling, and dreary as in the steppe and on the road. I remember, dusty and exhausted by the heat, I sat in the corner on a green box. The unpainted wooden walls, the furniture, and the floors colored with yellow ocher smelt of dry wood baked by the sun. Wherever I looked there were flies and
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The Ministry of Magic denies the existence of extraterrestrial life. It is this “conspiracy”, to which we have devoted our lives to uncovering. Discrepancies are paradoxical and the only thing to trust is magic, when reasoning fails. Though the pitch is littered with skeptics, we still remain dedicated to the search; the fact is however, much is unknown and there are obstacles at every turn. A larger scheme is at work, and maybe not those from other worlds, but someone amongst us. Nevertheless,
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