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Usually the predawn light means bedtime for wicked guitar players, but not that bloody Sunday.
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He lies in bed for hours every night, thinking, until finally he falls asleep and finds himself sitting on a cracked wooden stool behind the curtain at somebody's club. Fender Strat slung at his waist. He stares ahead, face unmoving, chain-smoking Camels, waiting. Long…
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“The Boy from Thuringia” is part of a series of stories collectively called The History of Adoption. In it, a middle-aged man sets out rather obsessively to write a comprehensive history of the adopted child. In his attempts to finally begin this im
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The first band I was ever in was called the Coming Cunts. Coming wasn’t spelled with a “u” because we thought the phrase would come off too transgressive.
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Sula tries to bring a bit of the magic back with her. She carefully tucks some into her suitcase between the Union Jack knee-high socks for her sister and souvenir Big Ben T-shirt for her mother. She braids some into her hair.
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As if one might get lost forever along the way.
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Mam was from the country and had strong views on issues like cats and pasteurization.
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The sun was bright, warm and blew through my hair like the wind.
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TromboneA trombone blusters his waythrough the bright restaurant,demanding to see the chef.He's furious;the prawns have given himsplitnotes.ViolinsFour violins wait for a bus in the rain.The pervading atmosphere of melancholymakes their plaintive scrapings redundant.AxeThe…
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