Page 5 - Issue 159 News Today

There’s something in the woods behind the house. Laura can hear it through the open window underneath the patter of rain as she nurses the baby. The thud of paws against the ground. The rush of breath as it snuffles, searching for food. Third night in a row. Each night, the something hunts along the same path between the palm trees and the fence line near her bedroom window.

When Angela cornered Lucy in the girls’ locker room and said, “White girl!” there was a moment when Lucy wanted to tell her how she wasn’t white or black, only the perfect mix of both, which is what her father liked to say. Instead, she turned away as her mother had taught her. Her mother would say, “Don’t fight. Be better than those petty girls, baby.”One of the LaLas, either

The thump rocked the concrete walls of Helene’s grocery shop, unleashing echoes from her years living at Prospect Manor, a low-income apartment complex in Oakland, California. There, youths had haunted the basketball grounds at all hours, seemingly drawing energy from dribbles on the cracked asphalt, which harbored in its crevices ancient gum and cigarette butts. Over time,

Jughea d potted s hell  he ad precious po tted jug pot she rd  shard pitch   er   she ll woven s he l l            it was multipleand my head was a joke   my head was a joke?   my head became a small vessel and a precious metal was put in theres he l l    jughea d potted s hell  precious po tted   he ad   jug   shell  pot   po  tted   she rd shard pitch   er woven   she ll 

Jehovah’s Witnesses drive by in SUVs, creeping up and down my block all weekend. I hide behind the blinds, doing them a favor; I’m an apostate, dangerous to their faith. A single word from my mouth could poison their minds and jeopardize their chances of living forever in the new system. It turns out they don’t care if anyone’s home—they ring anyway. I open the door to an adult and a teen asking me if I know who they are. Do they know who I am? Can they see the mark of the beast on ...

Over their twice-monthly pint of Guinness, two friends discover that their babies-to-be, the first for each man, are due only a week apart and that both will be daughters. The fair-haired friend’s happy exultation touches off a series of congratulations from the other patrons; the bartender, who has little girls of his own, serves them several more rounds on the house.

You can count on the crowsbefore sunset, bickering.This is my faith.How they swirl the air like inkor smudge the treesin charcoal, out of syncwith their own shadows.This is my faith before nightfallas evening skiesthe color of rosésegue to blackwith echoes of cruel laughter.

The immortal dogs of my fictions,exhausted from centuries of fetch,are laid out in puddles of sunor rummaging for slugsin the banks of soggy leaves.It is autumn, and the airis a bakery of dander and pollen.It is autumn, and the immortaldogs of my fictions are sniffingand digging for ancient wisdoms.In the bulges of mulch, in theoutstretched hands of children,there is something

It is St. Patrick’s Day, 1989, and I am fifteen years old. On that Friday evening, Demetris, a friend from school, is at a party. I am known as a social butterfly because I am outgoing and funny, and make people feel comfortable without being terrible. Demetris, a year older, also possesses these traits, and perhaps this is the crux of our friendship.

Wool socks. Diapers. Mittens. Hats. Dresses. The fear of God. Dark rye flour. Clogs made from scraps of lumber and leather. The Torah in Hebrew and Russian. One good wool suit. A child’s necktie. The Tsenah Urenah. A straight razor. A hand mirror. The plague of boils. Photographs of faces no longer considered human. The plague of darkness. Armbands bearing the Star of David.