e c l e c t i c a
s p o t l i g h t a u t h o r s
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This morning the wind has a woman's wail, sad over the prairie,
first a bright whistle, then hushh, then an owl-hoot, finally its female cry.
Through a criss-cross of cracks in the western window, the wind scuffs
the side of my face, slides cold like a cartoon devil inside my collar.
Laura Ellen Scott
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Uniformly, his ladies smile. Uniformly, they seem so satisfied. For him, at this time of his life, they represent what is unobtainable. The heavy sweet scents, strong enough to make his head ache, are not fashionable among women his age. And that soft skin is the exclusive product of decades of cold cream rituals and familial abuse. Fatigued cells have surrendered their integrity to children, to cook pots, to grocery store light. Matt considers the sensations that babies enjoy.