Winter 2007 Edition Selections
by Maggie Smith
Inside each tree you open, a room. Inside each room,
a white bed. But who can sleep with lies chattering
in the drapes like trapped birds?
by Jeanette Bertles
The children were away at camp, and her husband came up from the city only in occasional, manic bursts; so Katherine Willow drove across the line to French’s Stable, bought a large black horse, and had it placed upon the meadow that sloped southward from her house. She did not go into the meadow, and the black horse, undisturbed, began to switch its tail and finally lowered its head to graze.
by Lawrence Raab
“The absence of God,” wrote Georges Bataille,
“is greater, and more divine, than God.”
Which is an idea God might have come up with
if he’d been French and worried
about how to make it through
the twentieth century.
by Marcia Aldrich
For my mother’s first wedding, her father commissioned a maple
bedroom suite: an armoire, a dresser, and twin beds, all in a French country
style, with graceful lines like the lift and fall of willows, and resting on
carved claw feet. Twin beds were not a common choice for the bridal chamber, and
I have always supposed that by splitting the conjugal bed in two, my
grandfather—whose own marriage had been riven by a precipitous divorce when my
mother was just a little girl—was saying something sly about matrimony.
Previous selections Browse editions Newer Selections