Not that, at twelve, I believed in Saint Nick, but in my desperation I wasn’t above begging for a miracle.
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When he started walking, he would throw himself against walls.
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I still remember the unceremonious jostling and daily turf-battles that took place between tourists, townies and students in the beleaguered city centre.
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Rather than getting on another, we were to wait at the airport “until arrangements could be made.”
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The charge of energy that keeps me alert – eyes open, mind going. Heart pumping. Dreams running. The quickening of the keys beneath my fingertips, an ethereal rainstorm pouring down ...
Throughout history, humans have sought to other groups we need to blame for all the problems in our society.
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I’ve lived. Survived the terrible twos, endured teenage angst, and trudged through mountains of adulthood.
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I can deal with the snoring. The problem is that we bought a house. Buying a sweater is hard enough
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So this is East Germany, 1972. We scramble for our passports, watching passengers exit under machine guns aimed at our train from atop nineteenth-century iron catwalks arching above the tracks. ...
It’s always one of two nightmares: I’m either trapped in a room with a many-faced man, or he’s chasing me into the street outside my childhood home.
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The cop climbs in the back seat and introduces himself, Naim. Like many Afghans he has just one name.
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I don’t remember the kid’s name; the only impression he made on me was his face: scabbed over, crusted with dried blood all across his chin.
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“Η καρδιά. Yi kardiá. Heart.”
“Η βάρκα. Yi várka. Boat.”
“Η χώρα. Yi hóra. Country.”
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Forgive them, for they like their women dead
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What, a friend who came to visit me asked, is a writing group?
It’s just like a barn, I said. Horses.
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A gay man myself, I couldn’t help watching these two twenty-something guys as they walked past hand-in-hand.
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For me, the colony of lights that speckle the midnight city is always preferable to the monarchic blaze of the summer sky.
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My grandfather and his best friend made the trip to the coast to find that the only work to be had was picking fruit for ten cents an hour.
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One husband, two sons. Alive. Limbs and faculties intact. I got away with it?
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Freedom comes at high costs, and requires plenty of responsibility…Latvia learned this the hard way. And it is a lesson, and a price, my adopted home country of the ...