by Francesca Kazan
A photograph shows her in a cluster with nine of them: the boys are standing with neat, combed hair, wearing little–men’s tweedy jackets over their shirts, except for the two–year–old, who sits on Bridie’s lap, straps dangling from his shiny shoes, braces holding up his short trousers; the girls are dressed in pale summer frocks, each collared and pocketed, socks loose at their ankles. The darkest of eyes stare out at us.
by Herman J. Fong
My life becomes too hard, so I go away.
A couple near Turlock takes me in,
not because they like me,
but they like the good my rent will do.
by Carolyn Cooke
Oh, murder,” said my sister–in–law, who frightens me, passing crackers on a plate. “Crackers and cheese. Oh, this is murder. And what extraordinary cheese—”
“It’s Kraft mild cheddar from the Lii Peach,” I said, to plug her up.
“Mild cheddar. Why, it isn’t sharp at all! Extraordinary how they get the sharpness out of it. Of course we all get sharper as we get older, isn’t that true?”
by Richard Frost
Joe told Jane how the angel told
Mary not to be afraid
and then gave Jane another pull
on his bottle. Jane got laid
across the back seat of Joe’s Ford . . .
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