Sifting through the dirt to get to the gold
"It offended his sense of proportion and economy to throw away a ninety-percent serviceable string of lights. It offended his sense of himself, because he was an individual from an age of individuals, and a string of lights was, like him, an individual thing. No matter how little the thing had cost, to throw it... Continue Reading →
"Kafkaesque is when you enter a surreal world in which all you control begins to fall to pieces and you find yourself battling a force that does not lend itself to the way you perceive the world. You don't give up, you don't lay down and die. What you do is struggle with whatever strength... Continue Reading →
"Life is revealed through experience, the canyon had whispered to him. Not seen through a screen, or read about, or talked about. Experienced. And his entire life was a step away from experience; he was on the other side of the glass looking out; on the other side of the TV screen looking in." In an... Continue Reading →
Situated in between the northern borders of Iraq and Iran just south of Armenia, the Kurds fight for sovereignty for their small nation, but it is a constant losing battle for their people. Fifteen years ago a family was inadvertently bombed and killed by coalition forces on a mountain side in Kurdistan. As usual the... Continue Reading →
"Memorization had been her companion in her lonely southern childhood. Her father was a farmer and a minister, and when he discovered that she had a skill for remembering, he had her memorize verses to open his sermon on Sundays. It began as her companion and became her curse. Language was a game, that was... Continue Reading →
"The crack appeared at the bottom of the swimming pool on 1 January 1976... Oh God, Janet's hand flew to her mouth. Hektor-Jan would go mad. They had never budgeted for something like this. He did not like little surprises like this. Memories of car bumpers she had scratched, jagged rainbows which Shelley had drawn... Continue Reading →
"If the dirt could speak, whose story would it tell? Would it favor the ones who have knelt upon it, whose fingers have split turning it over with their hands? Those who, in the evening would collapse weeping and bleeding into it as if the dirt were their mother?Or would it favor those who seek... Continue Reading →
" 'Buenos dias,' Franny said to the woman in the apron. If she was being truly honest, Franny was slightly disappointed that the women in the market were all wearing perfectly normal clothing, with mobile phones sticking out of their pockets, just like women in New York. It was even true in Mumbai, that a... Continue Reading →
bindblottyandcajole 