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The Georgicks of Virgil, with an English Translation and Notes Virgil, John Martyn Ipsi in defossis specubus secura sub alta Otia agunt terra, congestaque robora, Pierius says it is confecto in the Roman manuscript. And Tacitus also says the Germans used to make caves to defend them from the severity of winter, .

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Mit 8 tlw. London: William Heinemann Ltd, - Octavo. Original black cloth, titles to spine in silver. Contemporary bookseller's ticket to front pastedown. Endleaves and endpapers a little tanned, rear inner hinge starting but still holding firm. A very good copy in a rubbed jacket with some small nicks and short splits, a small spot of dampstain to the verso not visible on the front, and a professional repair to the fold of the front flap, which had was split.

First edition, first impression. Brennan 22; Miller 26c. ABA member ]. Sans lieu, Collection Drosera. I - - 22 pages. This book is one of the classic titles from the 's. The book and its contents are in generally clean, bright condition. The spine ends have some beginning bumping. Both front and rear endpapers have some light spots of toning. The dust jacket has some beginning edge wear, rubbing and nicking. The top spine end has two small chips missing to the spine ends and there is some generalized toning to the spine. The book lies somewhere in between a short story collection and an episodic novel, containing stories Bradbury originally published in the late s in science fiction magazines.

The stories were loosely woven together with a series of short, interstitial vignettes for publication. June 5, was an American fantasy, science fiction, horror and mystery fiction author. Widely known for his dystopian novel Fahrenheit as well as his science fiction and horror story collections The Martian Chronicles , The Illustrated Man , and I Sing the Body Electric , Bradbury was one of the most celebrated 20th- and 21st-century American writers.

Howlett-West Books ]. Mit gest. Frontispiz u. Kupfern zum Bibelgeschehen im Text. Schwarz, 14 Bl. Zeit auf Holzdeckeln u. Dallapiccola, Luigi. F will not record[? Also included is a TLS from Laure Dallapiccola dated April 12, , concerning a missed rendez-vous when the composer was obliged to leave for a performance of "Ulysse" in Berlin. Various sizes and formats, most also with original transmissal envelopes generally signed additionally. Briefe aus dem Elternhaus. Dimensions: 32,5 x 24 cm. First edition of English novelist Nancy Mitford's translation of Madame de Lafayette's seventeenth-century novel, a high spot of French literature, illustrated with portraits of the court of Henri II.

A near-fine copy, very scarce in jacket. Octavo, original brick cloth, spine lettered in gilt, pictorial endpapers, original unclipped pictorial dust jacket designed by Philippe Jullian. Six full-page court portraits throughout text. Lightest shelfwear to jacket, light offsetting to endpapers. Roshardt, Walter Originalzeichnung Aquarell und Bleistift. Unten mit handschriftlicher Widmung von Roshardt an Eugen Laubacher, signiert, bezeichnet und datiert. Seitlich mit Kleberesten. Auf Unterlage montiert. Doderer, Heimito von, Austrian novelist ALS "Heimito".

Presumably Vienna, Large 8vo. Surely scarce and perhaps rare or even unique when signed. Hayward, K. Vg ex-lib. Text Spanish original species descriptions in original language. After waiting in so many rooms and signing so many papers, including a security clearance that made her feel important, Sheila was told to report on Monday, August 2nd. You belong here at home with your mother. Sheila cut the conversation short. I clamped down on me till my nipples bled.

Her mouth left a red ring around them like was scaret of her while I was pregnant. I knew she was going to be trouble. When I burped her, her spit-up burned my skin. I swear I Hell, I was scaret of her before she was even growing inside me. The day her was allergic to her. Whenever she touched me, I itched or I swole up. Oh, but I could hear. Oh Lord, I know if you had given me a boy it woulda been different.

My boy When she came out of me, she was shrieking like it was Halloween, even though woulda been sweet, like her daddy. But she. And hot as hell. Her daddy and I tried to stop her. Nobody believes me but I swear she was screaming while I think she stayed in her room for a full week. I was she was still inside my belly. Her daddy broke down straight up, with my eyes wide open. Her cries propped me up like a rod in my spine. Every time he brought her food she hugged on him, and They were muffled and her daddy said it was just indigestion, but I knew different.

They finally it wore him out. She hated me already. I knew that look. I saw it in the mirror every day. They had to wake me up by slapping me in the that way. When I came to, I thought she had been slapping me. That child was born bad. Tried to been her working through his hands. Oh yes. Sure, she eighteen years. God knows, I lived ten years for every one that get her to learn. But now. She still knows how to get to her daddy. Oh Lord, I did not want to be alone get to me. Not even me. And she meant it. I her daddy go on and ast, too.

He always thought a day. I was a bit touched, and now that she was here I was even worse. I was nigh hysterical. So he walks around with all that guilt, leaving him exposed like an open zipper. His sister, Patty, was a nurse at the hospital in the next town. When our nurses She sticks her hot fist in there and yanks till he screams or money hangs out. Usually said we had to go, he callt over to the otha hospital to see if we could come over there.

Tried to get her to learn. Lord, he was hiding how much he was giving her all these years. I shoulda knew it would be like smiling. How come I looked so sad. All that guilt gets expensive. She behind them. We got nothing left. Lord, we have always been what. Her screams had already changed my ears. I could only hear loud things now.

And Lord, every day, every There was nothing soft for me in the world anymore. But She chewed on my breasts at feeding time. Her gums were razor-like vises that now what I want to know is, what is your return policy? Emily Eddins Atherton, CA. She has been a professional writer for twenty years.

Her career includes time spent as a speechwriter, a journalist, a grant writer, and an editor. Before I came to El Paso, I googled the city to get an idea of what to expect. A picture caught my attention. It was obvious to me that much thought was behind its colorful exterior. It was pink, yellow, purple, orange… Somebody planned to use a rainbow in this store to bring life to a gray and lonely street. Lee Byrd, founder of this editorial house together with her husband, received me with the joy of those who do what they love.

She told me how they started the business back in , moved by the desire to publish their writer friends whose work was ignored by major publishing companies. Lee and Bobby are writers too. She laughed. Inside Cinco Puntos, I was surrounded by the same colors I saw outside. There are only one or two shelves on the walls. Rather, there are tables where people can quickly scan all the books that Cinco Puntos has published. I would get to meet him a few minutes later. Surviving in this business is a three-.

The first part is that every publication they have is promoted in book fairs and conferences. They submit their books for many awards. The acknowledgements they receive attracts buyers. The second part, a very important part, is to support their current authors, and also keep looking for new and good ones. Young adults, the target Many of the stories that Cinco Puntos is interested in are for young adult readers, especially in the Latino community.

And then she shows me Maximilian, a series of stories about a young lucha libre wrestler. Two Maximilian books have been published. Depending on the cultural relevance of the story, Cinco Puntos decides if. One of their most successful books is La Llorona. They are still printing other versions or even releasing it in other formats like a DVD reading of the book.

There are about fifteen of them, members of a book club. They are accompanied by a teacher. They have come specifically to know about the books and authors Cinco Puntos promotes, but they are also informed about how this editorial house turns a good story into a printed and colorful work of art. It is not an easy road. Lee explains all of this with funny cartoons she already had prepared, and answers their questions with enthusiasm and humility. Then, she invites the students to take a. A colorful dream look around and scan the books they like. The teacher cannot help himself.

He greets the students, the teacher, and he offers me a cup of coffee and an amusing conversation. Every now and then the teacher interrupts us, either to ask Bobby for his presence at the Tucson Book Fair, to thank him and Lee for their time, or to ask for his autograph. Lee and Bobby are used to this. They have many visitors. In our conversation, Bobby tells me more about Cinco Puntos. He thinks the business being in El Paso is both a benefit and a weakness. However, a lot of the authors they have published are a great success nationwide.

When the students say goodbye, Lee takes a break and also leaves the store. I see her grab her purse and a basket with four or five manila envelopes. These are manuscripts of new writers that she is interested in. Bobby read one of his short stories in the El Paso. When I left Cinco Puntos my heart was warmed by those colors in the walls and in the books.

You cannot help smiling after talking with these entrepreneurs, to have seen them in action inside that store, which is also their home, the place where they are building this colorful dream. El Paso, United States. Photographer and journalist. Job Search From the time Sheila started working, when she was a high school sophomore, every job she ever applied for had been hers, because her father, Carl Doty, did electrical work for numerous businesses in Minneapolis.

It mirrored her up and mostly down moods regarding her father. Dimpled prettiness back home might not pass muster in glamorous California. Running fingers through her freshly washed, curly red hair, she worried, Has it started to frizz? Sheila pushed open the door. An hour later, after a grammar and typing test, she met Mr. Middle-aged, he had a shiny pate with a graying fringe, deep furrows between tired brown eyes, and several extra pounds stuffed into a worn, tan gabardine suit. As she sat in the chair next to his desk, leafing through a government pamphlet, Sheila sensed when he looked up from her scores.

She tucked the pamphlet in her black patent purse and waited for him to go on. On a ship. She watched Mr. One of them, cute with a flipped hairdo, looked like her high school friends. His tone softened. A meticulously kept desk made of polished, light-colored wood dominated the airy reception room.

Behind it sat a woman, straight-backed, with platinum-blonde hair cut in a short, waved style. Tastefully applied makeup accentuated her raised eyebrows. Kathleen Glassburn Edmonds, WA. A fellow with crinkly, near-black hair never raised his head from the paperwork in front of him. Near the end of the hall, wide windows overlooked a courtyard garden full of unfamiliar tropical plants. Louise Hewett turned left into a small room without any windows, even in the door. It had a gray metal desk and a swivel chair, an IBM Selectric typewriter with a piece of white paper rolled into it, and a strange-looking black box.

File cabinets closed in around the desk and chair. Louise Hewett opened a drawer and took out a headset. While listing pertinent information on the form, Sheila began to shiver. The air conditioner operated at full blast, and with the door shut this room felt like a walk-in freezer. Thankful that the application was brief, she placed it aside and, with shaking hands, turned to the Dictaphone. She discovered how to hook the head apparatus up, then squished the band over her unruly hair and turned the switch on. How do I hear the recording?

Despite the icy temperature she began to perspire, tiny drops forming on her upper lip, as if she were in the midst of a humid Minneapolis day. The platen made a clicking sound as she yanked the smudged paper. As she pushed the return to begin that same address, the door opened, letting in her fragrance—lemony. After a minute scrutinizing each pathetic page, wearing the expression of a long-suffering martyr, she straightened the papers on her desk with a ker-plunk—ker-plunk—ker-plunk. Shaking her head like she truly.

But she remembered a twentydollar bill tucked in the zipper compartment. Autodidactic illustrator. She was also the maternal aunt of Maggie, the author. El brazo derecho estirado por encima de su cabeza, el brazo izquierdo sobre sus ojos. Un zapato sobre su abdomen, un zapato puesto al lado.

Su gabardina extendida sobre su cuerpo, su cabeza en la tumba de un desconocido. She is the author of three short-story books: Gente Menuda , No son gente como uno , Nenitas and the novel Una no habla de esto Her work as a fiction writer has been translated into English and Korean. In the Old House moonlight finds a home in soft, thin bodies flutter around the bare bulbs like some nightmare of angels illuminating the torn dress, blood on the frost-covered glass dog breath destroys the intricate lace patterns stretching over the windows like cobwebs, bridal lace jaws snap at the little hands folded in prayer on the other side of the glass, minutes from freedom.

Holly Day Minneapolis, MN. July days end in dusty haze pooled along an orange horizon. Sweat dries on salt-crusted foreheads, pale and furrowed above eyes that reflect a bloody sky, looking for rain.

PNL - J'Suis QLF [Clip Officiel]

Before night falls, one final glance crystallizes into stars bright but too far to touch. Railroads, relegated city outskirts, run nightly through small towns, interrupt sparse traffic with long black cars spilling coal. Faded graffitti unwinds across windshields, reminiscent vestige of drive-in theaters. A steady clank and rattle curves into an unseen horizon, their final silence after cars pass and arms rise. Richard Dinges Walton, NE. He has an MA in literary studies from University of Iowa and manages business systems at an insurance company. Upon This Rock The first time I saw him, he was on the stage in front of tiny crowd whose average age was years-old.

RIO GRANDE REVIEW (RGR) by Malena Villar - Issuu

Nevertheless, he played the guitar with passion and sang with deep sadness. And even when he was not at the El Paso County Coliseum, he was rocking! Eleven year old Brandon Bailey Johnson, despite his young age, is building his career in the most unlikely scenarios. The first time he faced the audience was at an Open Mic at the Pizza Joint on Mesa Street, which hosts a cultural space that encourages local artists to share their talents every Wednesday, starting at 8 pm. Here Brandon began his career. He started playing guitar since age seven.

The revelation came to him days after the Christian band from Georgia, The Museum, performed at his church. Since then, he pictured himself playing an instrument. On stage and in front of the microphone, his voice is booming, secure, dominant. Parishioners on St. The young man is never alone at these performances. His mother, Nancy Johnson , is the everpresent groupie supporting his show. Hi father, Terrance, is always there too, loading sound equipment and instruments, which together outweigh the own guitarist and composer.

Both have degrees in Criminal Justice. Terrance even dresses in UTEP colors, still paying tribute to the university he played football for. But this was the only one that he has played in public. Along with his father, he made the arrangements and melodies for this lyrical introduction.

His mother is also his creative guardian. She and his father strengthen his creativity and encourage him to pursue his dream. The race to reach this goal is already on. Brandon performed last year at the Albuquerque International Balloon. Fiesta during the first days of October. He has another facet. Brandon writes not only music, but stories. It all started two years ago. But, for now, his sights are set on exploring Georgia and Tennessee as a musical tour ambassador from El Paso. His family is involved with the love for music.

Nancy plays the flute, Terrance dabbles in the guitar, and his younger brother and sister play both the piano and the guitar. He practices his mojo-lyre for two to three hours a day. The music makes him happy No matter if it is recording an album, on tour or teaching other children his age, as it happened with him. He is a graduate in social communication and an amateur photographer. Currently he is a freelance writer and transcreator. Cecilia Diaz El Paso, Texas. Her guitar sculpture was displayed at the Neon Desert Music Festival in Her portfolio also includes portrait paintings and other ceramic sculptures.

She currently works as an art teacher in a private elementary school. He inherited the passion for photography from his father, Luis Torres. Two of his older brothers and a nephew are photographers too. At fourteen, he grabbed the camera in his hands to never let it go. He has worked in various media.

Maricela Duarte Recuerdo que una noche de abril un grillo cantaba afuera de mi ventana. I remember one night in April, a cricket was chirping outside my window. Crickets make music with their violins. That night I keep wondering about what my grandma had told me. I was imagining the cricket tuning its violin and getting ready for a great concert. Do, re, mi, do… Do, re, mi, la… A string here, tiny claps over there. Later I thought: Who teaches the crickets how to play their music?

Where do they buy their violins? I kept imagining and thinking about those little insects until I fell asleep. Los imaginaba cargando un violin en su espalda. I imagined them carrying a violin on their backs. I watched them practicing a special song for the moonlight. En noches de luna llena In full moon nights. Years later I learned in school that crickets do not have a violin. Los grillos simplemente frotan las patas traseras en sus alas.

Crickets just rub their back legs against their wings. At that moment I thought about my grandmother and why she had told me that crickets carry a violin. I prefer to imagine that crickets play their violin in the moonlight. The answer that my grandmother gave me will not be taught at school. Now I also think about my grandmother on April nights when the crickets come out to play their well-tuned violins.

The Feathered Ant Carolynne M. Ayoub The rainstorm sends chilly downdrafts into the ant nest. Listening to the raging winds overhead, Theo and his antmates pray that the stony doors to their fortress will hold throughout the night. Huddled below, they speak to one another about their close calls with the unexpected storm. Theo thinks back, remembering. He had to dash in-between the pounding raindrops, uncertain that he and his cargo would be able to reach the entrance in time. And the ants crack up. But now they want to laugh how everyone had gone wild outside, eager to share their adventures.

Even as he struggled homeward, he could hear the anxious whistles and squawking from the neighborhood birds. Their youngsters are still learning to fly, you know. Ants only have to remember one thing -and that is us! Our young and our nest! Taking up the call, the ants fall behind Ace and start to march around Theo. For listening to. For noticing, too. For talking about. Red-faced, Theo slides away into his bunk, wanting the howling wind to drown out the teasing.

He draws his legs in, repeating to himself that it is foolish to worry about birds or anyone else except his own kind. Eventually, Ace and his merrymakers go off to bed and before long, their snores echo down the hallways. Theo dozes off and on, waking up from nightmares about drowning in feathers. The arrival of the day brings new sounds and light into the anthill. The storm has passed.

Theo starts humming the tune as he begins his morning preparations. Everyone, it seems, is coming to life. Outside, the first joyful chirps of a sparrow salute the day. Its call ignites the daily bird chatter. Theo catches their excitement and hurries to join the line of ants who are ready to exit. But the ant gives Theo a funny look and turns away. From multiple corridors deep within the earth, the grunts of the strongest workers resonate as the boulder door is heaved aside. Up ahead, the dim light guides each ant through the sandy doorway. The clouds, tickled pink and bathed in coral and yellow light, are swaying in the soft wind.

Bit by bit, rich colors swirl in the sky until an expanse of blue dabbed with white stretches across the horizon. As the line moves forward in the grass, each worker prepares himself for the daily routine of foraging for food. No matter the distance or challenge, each ant works in the morning, throughout the afternoon up until sunset, carrying tasty tidbits for their community. He remembers how his brothers had made fun of him last night for being misguided. In my heart, he tells himself, I know that I am like them. I really am. Soon the trail of ants begins to disperse with each ant picking up different scents.

Theo starts climbing over gravel, recalling his most delicious discoveries - a sweet raisin, a chewedup kernel of corn, and a nutty grain. As he travels over a stick, around a puddle, and under a leaf, Theo boasts to himself, saying he that he never gets tired and that he can smell and feel his way for food anytime. He tugs on the crust with his strong jaws until it is freed. Triumphant, Theo begins lugging the piece of bread over the rocky path but it gets caught in a ditch. Instinctively, he tries again.

This time, he clasps his front legs onto the strip of bread and drags it, not knowing what is behind him. Suddenly, something like a thread wraps around his back legs and he drops the crust, turning around sharply and he yelps in pain. In front of him, a large something is laying on the ground. Frozen in place, Theo looks at the ragged cloth with uneven threads and small holes; its mass rising and falling as if it were breathing. Theo stares at the object and suddenly realizes that a bloody grey feather is poking out of one of the holes.

Could it be? Theo strains forward, his back feet throbbing. Then he knows. It is the something that the wind had whipped away from human queen. He looks at the bird, a tangled mess. Then Theo glances down at his back feet, wrapped in green thread. Theo sets off to work. His mandibles — strong enough to rip through a seed coat — begin to nibble at the thread until his limbs are freed. Ready to move on, he turns away and is about to pick up the crust when he hears the bird cry out.

Its three soft notes quiver and then descend into a lonely silence. It sighs and its eyes ooze. Its beak is open and it breathes in and out, panting so slightly that he wonders. He studies it. It is not everyday that an ant gets this close to a live sparrow. Ants know about birds when their bodies shudder. They know them when their scaly legs stiffen and their bodies become rigid. The corpse of a bird can nourish ants as well as any crust of bread. Theo freezes.

He looks at it as if the words were stamped upon its brown beak. His eyes follow along the sharp point of the bill to the darkened nose holes, noting how its feathers are pressed against the netting of the dishtowel. One cloudy eye peers through the crisscrossing threads of the towel. Can it see me? Theo wonders. Why did I say it was too big? Not an ant. Theo shakes his head no to his crazy thoughts; his antennas follow no-no-no. It tries again. Theo turns his head toward the oak where a sharp tweet repeats itself over and over again.

Is there a nest there hidden behind the green leaves? The painful call jabs the sky. There is no songbird reply. Theo steps forward unsure of himself. His mind seems empty of all sense. He only knows that he is afraid, ready to flee or sting the creature in front of him if he must. But his legs, freed moments earlier from a thread, move on their own toward the bird. The ant walks closer and sees the haphazard threads cutting into its face and neck. It is clear that it had struggled long and hard — probably throughout the night — until its feathers, wings, and feet pulled and twisted the dishtowel, making a mishmash of the bird and the cloth.

Making its escape impossible. The string, wrapped around its neck, is tight as a noose. Theo stares at the redden flesh where the thread has worked its way between layers of feather. The thread loosens and a whisper of a feather springs forward. Theo nods and walks along another strand coated with dried blood.

And then another one. With each snap, he feels stronger and braver. It watches Theo snap thread after thread yet it does not flex a muscle or turn its neck. Theo stops, feeling dizzy from his work. Theo is tongue-tied. And confused. Birds and ants do not talk to one another and here he is, crawling upon a sparrow and snapping threads. He has no business being there. The feathered ant. His antennas droop in shame. Chloe watches the worm wiggles into an ordinary piece of string. A long soprano tone vibrates and then a song of longing floats.

Chloe sings: Sweet, sweet sparrow Sheltered in my nest Nestle upon my breast. For soon, your time of flying Shall be upon us. Theo gazes at her, laying on her side, still immobile. Why is that, he wonders. Is it an injury or hunger that keeps her pressed into the grass? He notices that many colored threads, once taunt around her neck and face, now hang like soft curls. And across her outer wing, where he had snapped most of the mesh away, the wind gently caresses her feathers.

Could it be that a twisted foot or broken wing keeps her tethered? Her last note hangs in the air for a moment, and there is silence between them. She looks so dejected and Theo begins to feel blue, too. I saw it in the mirror every day. They had to wake me up by slapping me in the that way. When I came to, I thought she had been slapping me. That child was born bad. Tried to been her working through his hands.

Oh yes. Sure, she eighteen years. God knows, I lived ten years for every one that get her to learn. But now. She still knows how to get to her daddy. Oh Lord, I did not want to be alone get to me. Not even me. And she meant it. I her daddy go on and ast, too. He always thought a day. I was a bit touched, and now that she was here I was even worse. I was nigh hysterical. So he walks around with all that guilt, leaving him exposed like an open zipper. His sister, Patty, was a nurse at the hospital in the next town.

When our nurses She sticks her hot fist in there and yanks till he screams or money hangs out. Usually said we had to go, he callt over to the otha hospital to see if we could come over there. Tried to get her to learn. Lord, he was hiding how much he was giving her all these years.

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I shoulda knew it would be like smiling. How come I looked so sad. All that guilt gets expensive. She behind them. We got nothing left. Lord, we have always been what. Her screams had already changed my ears. I could only hear loud things now. And Lord, every day, every There was nothing soft for me in the world anymore. But She chewed on my breasts at feeding time. Her gums were razor-like vises that now what I want to know is, what is your return policy?

Emily Eddins Atherton, CA. She has been a professional writer for twenty years. Her career includes time spent as a speechwriter, a journalist, a grant writer, and an editor. Before I came to El Paso, I googled the city to get an idea of what to expect. A picture caught my attention. It was obvious to me that much thought was behind its colorful exterior. It was pink, yellow, purple, orange… Somebody planned to use a rainbow in this store to bring life to a gray and lonely street. Lee Byrd, founder of this editorial house together with her husband, received me with the joy of those who do what they love.

She told me how they started the business back in , moved by the desire to publish their writer friends whose work was ignored by major publishing companies. Lee and Bobby are writers too. She laughed. Inside Cinco Puntos, I was surrounded by the same colors I saw outside. There are only one or two shelves on the walls. Rather, there are tables where people can quickly scan all the books that Cinco Puntos has published.

I would get to meet him a few minutes later. Surviving in this business is a three-. The first part is that every publication they have is promoted in book fairs and conferences. They submit their books for many awards. The acknowledgements they receive attracts buyers. The second part, a very important part, is to support their current authors, and also keep looking for new and good ones.

Young adults, the target Many of the stories that Cinco Puntos is interested in are for young adult readers, especially in the Latino community. And then she shows me Maximilian, a series of stories about a young lucha libre wrestler. Two Maximilian books have been published. Depending on the cultural relevance of the story, Cinco Puntos decides if. One of their most successful books is La Llorona. They are still printing other versions or even releasing it in other formats like a DVD reading of the book.

Arab Dress History

There are about fifteen of them, members of a book club. They are accompanied by a teacher. They have come specifically to know about the books and authors Cinco Puntos promotes, but they are also informed about how this editorial house turns a good story into a printed and colorful work of art.

It is not an easy road. Lee explains all of this with funny cartoons she already had prepared, and answers their questions with enthusiasm and humility. Then, she invites the students to take a. A colorful dream look around and scan the books they like. The teacher cannot help himself. He greets the students, the teacher, and he offers me a cup of coffee and an amusing conversation. Every now and then the teacher interrupts us, either to ask Bobby for his presence at the Tucson Book Fair, to thank him and Lee for their time, or to ask for his autograph.

Lee and Bobby are used to this. They have many visitors. In our conversation, Bobby tells me more about Cinco Puntos. He thinks the business being in El Paso is both a benefit and a weakness. However, a lot of the authors they have published are a great success nationwide. When the students say goodbye, Lee takes a break and also leaves the store. I see her grab her purse and a basket with four or five manila envelopes. These are manuscripts of new writers that she is interested in. Bobby read one of his short stories in the El Paso. When I left Cinco Puntos my heart was warmed by those colors in the walls and in the books.

You cannot help smiling after talking with these entrepreneurs, to have seen them in action inside that store, which is also their home, the place where they are building this colorful dream. El Paso, United States. Photographer and journalist. Job Search From the time Sheila started working, when she was a high school sophomore, every job she ever applied for had been hers, because her father, Carl Doty, did electrical work for numerous businesses in Minneapolis. It mirrored her up and mostly down moods regarding her father. Dimpled prettiness back home might not pass muster in glamorous California.

Running fingers through her freshly washed, curly red hair, she worried, Has it started to frizz? Sheila pushed open the door. An hour later, after a grammar and typing test, she met Mr. Middle-aged, he had a shiny pate with a graying fringe, deep furrows between tired brown eyes, and several extra pounds stuffed into a worn, tan gabardine suit. As she sat in the chair next to his desk, leafing through a government pamphlet, Sheila sensed when he looked up from her scores. She tucked the pamphlet in her black patent purse and waited for him to go on.

On a ship. She watched Mr. One of them, cute with a flipped hairdo, looked like her high school friends. His tone softened. A meticulously kept desk made of polished, light-colored wood dominated the airy reception room. Behind it sat a woman, straight-backed, with platinum-blonde hair cut in a short, waved style.

Tastefully applied makeup accentuated her raised eyebrows. Kathleen Glassburn Edmonds, WA. A fellow with crinkly, near-black hair never raised his head from the paperwork in front of him. Near the end of the hall, wide windows overlooked a courtyard garden full of unfamiliar tropical plants. Louise Hewett turned left into a small room without any windows, even in the door.

It had a gray metal desk and a swivel chair, an IBM Selectric typewriter with a piece of white paper rolled into it, and a strange-looking black box. File cabinets closed in around the desk and chair. Louise Hewett opened a drawer and took out a headset. While listing pertinent information on the form, Sheila began to shiver. The air conditioner operated at full blast, and with the door shut this room felt like a walk-in freezer. Thankful that the application was brief, she placed it aside and, with shaking hands, turned to the Dictaphone.

She discovered how to hook the head apparatus up, then squished the band over her unruly hair and turned the switch on. How do I hear the recording? Despite the icy temperature she began to perspire, tiny drops forming on her upper lip, as if she were in the midst of a humid Minneapolis day. The platen made a clicking sound as she yanked the smudged paper. As she pushed the return to begin that same address, the door opened, letting in her fragrance—lemony.

After a minute scrutinizing each pathetic page, wearing the expression of a long-suffering martyr, she straightened the papers on her desk with a ker-plunk—ker-plunk—ker-plunk. Shaking her head like she truly. But she remembered a twentydollar bill tucked in the zipper compartment. Autodidactic illustrator. She was also the maternal aunt of Maggie, the author. El brazo derecho estirado por encima de su cabeza, el brazo izquierdo sobre sus ojos. Un zapato sobre su abdomen, un zapato puesto al lado.

Su gabardina extendida sobre su cuerpo, su cabeza en la tumba de un desconocido. She is the author of three short-story books: Gente Menuda , No son gente como uno , Nenitas and the novel Una no habla de esto Her work as a fiction writer has been translated into English and Korean. In the Old House moonlight finds a home in soft, thin bodies flutter around the bare bulbs like some nightmare of angels illuminating the torn dress, blood on the frost-covered glass dog breath destroys the intricate lace patterns stretching over the windows like cobwebs, bridal lace jaws snap at the little hands folded in prayer on the other side of the glass, minutes from freedom.

Holly Day Minneapolis, MN. July days end in dusty haze pooled along an orange horizon. Sweat dries on salt-crusted foreheads, pale and furrowed above eyes that reflect a bloody sky, looking for rain. Before night falls, one final glance crystallizes into stars bright but too far to touch. Railroads, relegated city outskirts, run nightly through small towns, interrupt sparse traffic with long black cars spilling coal. Faded graffitti unwinds across windshields, reminiscent vestige of drive-in theaters. A steady clank and rattle curves into an unseen horizon, their final silence after cars pass and arms rise.

Richard Dinges Walton, NE. He has an MA in literary studies from University of Iowa and manages business systems at an insurance company. Upon This Rock The first time I saw him, he was on the stage in front of tiny crowd whose average age was years-old. Nevertheless, he played the guitar with passion and sang with deep sadness. And even when he was not at the El Paso County Coliseum, he was rocking! Eleven year old Brandon Bailey Johnson, despite his young age, is building his career in the most unlikely scenarios. The first time he faced the audience was at an Open Mic at the Pizza Joint on Mesa Street, which hosts a cultural space that encourages local artists to share their talents every Wednesday, starting at 8 pm.

Here Brandon began his career. He started playing guitar since age seven. The revelation came to him days after the Christian band from Georgia, The Museum, performed at his church. Since then, he pictured himself playing an instrument. On stage and in front of the microphone, his voice is booming, secure, dominant. Parishioners on St. The young man is never alone at these performances. His mother, Nancy Johnson , is the everpresent groupie supporting his show.

Hi father, Terrance, is always there too, loading sound equipment and instruments, which together outweigh the own guitarist and composer. Both have degrees in Criminal Justice. Terrance even dresses in UTEP colors, still paying tribute to the university he played football for. But this was the only one that he has played in public. Along with his father, he made the arrangements and melodies for this lyrical introduction. His mother is also his creative guardian.

She and his father strengthen his creativity and encourage him to pursue his dream. The race to reach this goal is already on. Brandon performed last year at the Albuquerque International Balloon. Fiesta during the first days of October. He has another facet. Brandon writes not only music, but stories. It all started two years ago. But, for now, his sights are set on exploring Georgia and Tennessee as a musical tour ambassador from El Paso. His family is involved with the love for music. Nancy plays the flute, Terrance dabbles in the guitar, and his younger brother and sister play both the piano and the guitar.

He practices his mojo-lyre for two to three hours a day. The music makes him happy No matter if it is recording an album, on tour or teaching other children his age, as it happened with him. He is a graduate in social communication and an amateur photographer. Currently he is a freelance writer and transcreator.

Cecilia Diaz El Paso, Texas. Her guitar sculpture was displayed at the Neon Desert Music Festival in Her portfolio also includes portrait paintings and other ceramic sculptures. She currently works as an art teacher in a private elementary school. He inherited the passion for photography from his father, Luis Torres.

Two of his older brothers and a nephew are photographers too. At fourteen, he grabbed the camera in his hands to never let it go. He has worked in various media. Maricela Duarte Recuerdo que una noche de abril un grillo cantaba afuera de mi ventana. I remember one night in April, a cricket was chirping outside my window.

Crickets make music with their violins. That night I keep wondering about what my grandma had told me. I was imagining the cricket tuning its violin and getting ready for a great concert. Do, re, mi, do… Do, re, mi, la… A string here, tiny claps over there. Later I thought: Who teaches the crickets how to play their music? Where do they buy their violins?

I kept imagining and thinking about those little insects until I fell asleep. Los imaginaba cargando un violin en su espalda. I imagined them carrying a violin on their backs. I watched them practicing a special song for the moonlight. En noches de luna llena In full moon nights. Years later I learned in school that crickets do not have a violin. Los grillos simplemente frotan las patas traseras en sus alas. Crickets just rub their back legs against their wings.

At that moment I thought about my grandmother and why she had told me that crickets carry a violin. I prefer to imagine that crickets play their violin in the moonlight. The answer that my grandmother gave me will not be taught at school. Now I also think about my grandmother on April nights when the crickets come out to play their well-tuned violins. The Feathered Ant Carolynne M. Ayoub The rainstorm sends chilly downdrafts into the ant nest. Listening to the raging winds overhead, Theo and his antmates pray that the stony doors to their fortress will hold throughout the night.

Huddled below, they speak to one another about their close calls with the unexpected storm. Theo thinks back, remembering. He had to dash in-between the pounding raindrops, uncertain that he and his cargo would be able to reach the entrance in time. And the ants crack up.

But now they want to laugh how everyone had gone wild outside, eager to share their adventures. Even as he struggled homeward, he could hear the anxious whistles and squawking from the neighborhood birds. Their youngsters are still learning to fly, you know. Ants only have to remember one thing -and that is us! Our young and our nest! Taking up the call, the ants fall behind Ace and start to march around Theo. For listening to. For noticing, too. For talking about. Red-faced, Theo slides away into his bunk, wanting the howling wind to drown out the teasing.

He draws his legs in, repeating to himself that it is foolish to worry about birds or anyone else except his own kind. Eventually, Ace and his merrymakers go off to bed and before long, their snores echo down the hallways. Theo dozes off and on, waking up from nightmares about drowning in feathers. The arrival of the day brings new sounds and light into the anthill.

The storm has passed. Theo starts humming the tune as he begins his morning preparations. Everyone, it seems, is coming to life. Outside, the first joyful chirps of a sparrow salute the day. Its call ignites the daily bird chatter. Theo catches their excitement and hurries to join the line of ants who are ready to exit. But the ant gives Theo a funny look and turns away. From multiple corridors deep within the earth, the grunts of the strongest workers resonate as the boulder door is heaved aside. Up ahead, the dim light guides each ant through the sandy doorway. The clouds, tickled pink and bathed in coral and yellow light, are swaying in the soft wind.

Bit by bit, rich colors swirl in the sky until an expanse of blue dabbed with white stretches across the horizon. As the line moves forward in the grass, each worker prepares himself for the daily routine of foraging for food. No matter the distance or challenge, each ant works in the morning, throughout the afternoon up until sunset, carrying tasty tidbits for their community. He remembers how his brothers had made fun of him last night for being misguided. In my heart, he tells himself, I know that I am like them.

I really am. Soon the trail of ants begins to disperse with each ant picking up different scents. Theo starts climbing over gravel, recalling his most delicious discoveries - a sweet raisin, a chewedup kernel of corn, and a nutty grain. As he travels over a stick, around a puddle, and under a leaf, Theo boasts to himself, saying he that he never gets tired and that he can smell and feel his way for food anytime.

He tugs on the crust with his strong jaws until it is freed. Triumphant, Theo begins lugging the piece of bread over the rocky path but it gets caught in a ditch. Instinctively, he tries again. This time, he clasps his front legs onto the strip of bread and drags it, not knowing what is behind him. Suddenly, something like a thread wraps around his back legs and he drops the crust, turning around sharply and he yelps in pain.

In front of him, a large something is laying on the ground. Frozen in place, Theo looks at the ragged cloth with uneven threads and small holes; its mass rising and falling as if it were breathing. Theo stares at the object and suddenly realizes that a bloody grey feather is poking out of one of the holes. Could it be? Theo strains forward, his back feet throbbing. Then he knows. It is the something that the wind had whipped away from human queen. He looks at the bird, a tangled mess. Then Theo glances down at his back feet, wrapped in green thread.

Theo sets off to work. His mandibles — strong enough to rip through a seed coat — begin to nibble at the thread until his limbs are freed. Ready to move on, he turns away and is about to pick up the crust when he hears the bird cry out. Its three soft notes quiver and then descend into a lonely silence. It sighs and its eyes ooze. Its beak is open and it breathes in and out, panting so slightly that he wonders. He studies it. It is not everyday that an ant gets this close to a live sparrow.

Ants know about birds when their bodies shudder. They know them when their scaly legs stiffen and their bodies become rigid. The corpse of a bird can nourish ants as well as any crust of bread. Theo freezes. He looks at it as if the words were stamped upon its brown beak. His eyes follow along the sharp point of the bill to the darkened nose holes, noting how its feathers are pressed against the netting of the dishtowel.

One cloudy eye peers through the crisscrossing threads of the towel. Can it see me? Theo wonders. Why did I say it was too big? Not an ant. Theo shakes his head no to his crazy thoughts; his antennas follow no-no-no. It tries again. Theo turns his head toward the oak where a sharp tweet repeats itself over and over again. Is there a nest there hidden behind the green leaves? The painful call jabs the sky. There is no songbird reply. Theo steps forward unsure of himself. His mind seems empty of all sense. He only knows that he is afraid, ready to flee or sting the creature in front of him if he must.

But his legs, freed moments earlier from a thread, move on their own toward the bird. The ant walks closer and sees the haphazard threads cutting into its face and neck. It is clear that it had struggled long and hard — probably throughout the night — until its feathers, wings, and feet pulled and twisted the dishtowel, making a mishmash of the bird and the cloth.

Making its escape impossible. The string, wrapped around its neck, is tight as a noose. Theo stares at the redden flesh where the thread has worked its way between layers of feather. The thread loosens and a whisper of a feather springs forward. Theo nods and walks along another strand coated with dried blood. And then another one.

With each snap, he feels stronger and braver. It watches Theo snap thread after thread yet it does not flex a muscle or turn its neck. Theo stops, feeling dizzy from his work. Theo is tongue-tied. And confused. Birds and ants do not talk to one another and here he is, crawling upon a sparrow and snapping threads. He has no business being there. The feathered ant. His antennas droop in shame. Chloe watches the worm wiggles into an ordinary piece of string. A long soprano tone vibrates and then a song of longing floats. Chloe sings: Sweet, sweet sparrow Sheltered in my nest Nestle upon my breast.

For soon, your time of flying Shall be upon us. Theo gazes at her, laying on her side, still immobile. Why is that, he wonders. Is it an injury or hunger that keeps her pressed into the grass? He notices that many colored threads, once taunt around her neck and face, now hang like soft curls.

And across her outer wing, where he had snapped most of the mesh away, the wind gently caresses her feathers. Could it be that a twisted foot or broken wing keeps her tethered? Her last note hangs in the air for a moment, and there is silence between them. She looks so dejected and Theo begins to feel blue, too. In his mind, Theo remembers those rainy days when all the ants are holed up, and how the older ants would come up with something to break the monotony for the kids. Something funny. A game or. Theo grabs a short purple thread and ties a loop. Theo realizes how young she is.

And he begins looping and twisting the string around his leghairs. Chloe is captivated and starts guessing. A belt? Right before the grand finale, he starts stamping his remaining legs and Chloe begins twittering. And she warbles, her tone shaky: Sweet, sweet sparrow My mother teaches me Eat the berry and seed, Find a tasty insect, Oh so nourishing! Is this a message to feed her? Or a deception? Theo steps back, not trusting their primitive natures. His legs become rigid, and his antennas become erect. He answers her with a tune that every ant knows: When we ants go-a-marching in pursuit of food — We are single-minded and true!

We seek food for our queen Our nest and our young Thinking only of our community! Theo reads the fear in her eye at the possibility that his ant brothers could eat her alive. He is quaking, too, noticing again the tip of her beak, and her fleshy tongue that could whip him down her throat. The silence is a knife between them. His legs relax and his antennas seem a question mark. You only want a seed to eat? Questions once raised do not go away. Oh, the fastest runner of all would have a field day humiliating Theo.

Theo, what nest are you from?