Issue 149

Winter & Spring 2016

Image from This is Not My Home

Nonfiction Catherine Jagoe Nonfiction Catherine Jagoe

Vanishing Acts

This morning, two things vanished. The first disappeared while I was in the front yard watering a young crab-apple tree we planted this spring. Absent-mindedly, I let the hose wander to a nearby bush and startled a chipmunk, who dashed out in front of me and vanished into thin air.

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Nonfiction Craig Bernardini Nonfiction Craig Bernardini

Chemistry of Sacrifice

In the spring of 1987, as I was getting ready to go away to college, my mother was preparing to return to medicine. She had stopped practicing eighteen years before, the year that I, her second child, was born; the year she had conceded that raising children and working at the hospital were not compatible, at least with the devotion she believed each deserved.

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Nonfiction Traci Brimhall Nonfiction Traci Brimhall

Murder Ballad in the Land of Nod

And Cain went out from the presence of the Lord, and dwelt in the land of Nod.

—Genesis 4:16

In a story with many firsts, the first man and the first woman committed the first sin and had two sons—one who offered fruit to God, one who offered blood in a garden.

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Nonfiction Gary Garvin Nonfiction Gary Garvin

Hamlet

The National Theater on Elm, our main street, opened in 1921 and for several years was Greensboro’s premier showcase. Vaudeville and silents played there, I understand, maybe live stage, later followed by sound and color.

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Nonfiction Julia Whitty Nonfiction Julia Whitty

Grief and Wonder

The call came in the dark in the hour of sleep when you don’t know your own name. It came from a voice so fragmented that I thought at first it was two animals baying down the phone line. I kept asking: What?

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Nonfiction Diana Delgado Nonfiction Diana Delgado

Excerpts from People to Run From

Notes for White Girls

Roaches bubbling out of drawers and dirty cabinets, so many that each time a boyfriend asked for something to eat, I’d run to the kitchen, turn on the light, and squash whatever was running with the palm of my hand. They thought I asked them to sit in the living room and wait because I liked serving them.

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Nonfiction Margot Livesey Nonfiction Margot Livesey

Gustave and Emma

Artists: All hoaxers.

—Flaubert, Dictionnaire des idées recues.

For me a book has always only been a way of living in some particular milieu. That is what explains my hesitations, my anguish and my slowness.

—Flaubert, letter to Mlle. Leroyer de Chantepie, December 26, 1858

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