Reprinted from Issue 3 of Ploughshares, Winter 1972. (guest edited by James Randall) Richard Yates was born in Yonkers, New York, in 1926. He graduated from the Avon School in 1944, served in the last years of World War II, and until 1952 worked at a variety of jobs, ranging from newspaper rewrite man to…
It was 1986 and I was staying with my brother in Omdurman close to Khartoum, where the White Nile and the Blue Nile meet. Omdurman was vast, the size of the city, but it was not a city in any way that I recognized. There were no wide streets or squares or municipal buildings, and…
Sometimes when I’m asked to account for my weirdness—by those sympathetic enough to have not given up on me—I remember that Edward Gorey responded to the same request by remarking that the first two books he remembered reading as a child were Alice in Wonderland and Dracula, and so I offer my own origins story,…
There was something secretive about it. When I walked into the library and turned right and kept walking, they were there. Had I ever seen a magazine before I got to college? I had. Had I ever seen a literary journal? I had not. I was a seventeen-year-old girl who left high school a year…
From White Out , a memoir “Sir, in my heart there was a kind of fighting That would not let me sleep.” -Hamlet My Dad puts the gun in my hands. The barrel is cold. Cold like a rock you lay across in winter before it snows. But it’s autumn now. The trees all around…
“If it is true that there is an origin of language and if it is true that the origin of language is other to the uttered experience of language, then the origin is irreparably lost and unreachable.” —Paolo Bartoloni I. It was snowing that day. A scree of snow fell against a sky so white…
I saw him once in all these years, walking up the steep hill from the bus stop, past my parents’ house, on his way home to the house where he lived with his wife. I was outside on the lawn that day with my two boys, interfering in one of their arguments, separating them while…
What shall we call it when we’re sexually starving? I never liked the word "horny"; it’s trivializing and more than a little rhinocerean. Also too front heavy to be used for women. The old-fashioned phrase "on the lurch" sounds rude: monstro-comically (courtesy of The Addams Family) redolent both of lurching forward and being left in…
Bill held the knife. I held the book. "Cut a slit from the deer’s breastbone to the anus, taking care not to puncture the bladder," I read. My fingers stiffened in the wind. Steam rose off the guts as they hit the driveway. The moon shone off the snow. He had me hold a hoof….
No products in the cart.