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There are more than 200 results, only the first 200 are displayed here.
the tongue is bleeding, but the words come out the same. checking spelling, cursive immaculate, an orderly flight of birds across a yellowing page.
marriage is a sacred sanatorium .. better late than pregnant .. Heaven knows no beauty like a woman divorced .. absence makes the heart grow abscesses
A young man, made of ebony, from Senegal or Somalia or the Côte d'Ivoire, sat down beside me gracefully… I gave him the twenty euro that I had to hand. Stammering, ill at ease, he asked me what I had in mind.
According to predictions based on earlier floods the ground floor of my house was was going to be inundated, so all our worldies were brought upstairs. We waited. It rained. Then on Tuesday morning something interesting started to happen.
You can't have your cake if it's eaten. Or your cooked goose if it's no good for a gander. Golden eggs are useless in a fragile economy. And what goes up must keep going.
When my grandparents died earlier this year, I barely cried at their funerals. While reading aloud at my grandmother's, I glanced out at the congregation and saw my grandfather's face shiny with tears, looking up at me ... My voice cracked, but I'm a good girl so I held it together.
Lost — Waiting for Spring — God owes me Royalties — Niche — Folding & Flying — Judas and Jezebel — Donne captains a ship of fools — Home — Loose Change — election
'Excuse me,' the young man says. I meet his brown eyes. Pondering how many coins I have in my pocket I note his tidy hair, olive T-shirt, well-fitting jeans, coloured sneakers. Maybe he just wants to ask about the next train. He is perspiring a little. 'Can I talk to you?' he asks.
extracted .. from a small black bag .. on a peak hour train .. Held sharp and confident as a new razor .. against the shunt and shuck .. of the carriage .. Throwback to industrial tortures .. held against the soft wet eye
This election campaign has been reminiscent of the Italian hunting season, where it becomes dangerous to go out of doors when so many guns are pointed into the air. Elections are like the shooting season. High fliers are safe. Low fliers are not.
Winter in the Russian industrial city of Yaroslavl has been hard since the Global Financial Crisis. The 'contract' between Russia's elite and ordinary Russians, whereby the latter sacrifice their civil and political rights for economic wellbeing, is not delivering.
When such melancholy descends the only thing to do is walk. I fetched up near a chapel on a hill, for the village is ringed by chapels, six of them, in a kind of protective belt. Outside I found a gum tree and a Judas tree standing side by side: my life, or my two lives in a neat symbol.
133-144 out of 200 results.