akvarel-mall.ru/koyci/138.php The overall impression was one of calm, poise, and comfort. Within the rooms themselves, there was less comfort. Aging wasn't easy. Memory was unsure, especially with the help of certain frequently prescribed drugs. Physical discomfort was quite prevalent, for which, ironically, fewer drugs were prescribed. Constance Maynard, age ninety-two, knew this well and would have shared her complaints, had she cared to. At the moment, she just wished Eunice and Sam would ease up a little.
They were attempting to wash her feet by putting them in a plastic tub full of warm, soapy water.
Constance thought the task should be simple enough. She didn't see why it required four hands to manage it. They always teamed up when any sort of bathing or dressing was needed.
Weren't they the oddest pair? Fifty-something Eunice and twenty-something Sam. One, slight and wiry, the other, a linebacker. Big and Small. Short and Tall. Who's the fairest of them all? That was her sleep aid talking. The young doctor who came around told her rest was essential. Who was he kidding? Any moment now she would enter the realm of eternal rest. She should have the luxury of lying awake all night if she wanted to.
Night was the traveling time. The time of seeing.
Eunice, the little one, knelt and lifted one gnarled foot out of the water, ran a scratchy washcloth between the toes, and lowered the foot back into the tub. The same was done to the other foot. Constance observed her feet with dismay. They certainly weren't anything to brag about. Years of dull faces; years of dull minds. Engineering students needing to fulfill their liberal arts credits; fools who had no idea what to study and who got assigned to her lecture by that toad, Harriet, in Registration.
Just there to get a husband and start cranking out imbecile children. The so-called research papers they wrote were scandalous. No matter how many times she went over proper footnoting procedure, their sources if they were actual sources went uncited. Her remarks were harsh and often caused tears. The Dean scolded her. She could be hard on the men, that was fine; they were serious, hoping for a bright future.
The women, well, what could you expect? Constance fumed.
And then, she was blessed when Angela Lowry signed up for her class. Angela had a first-rate mind and was eager to learn. She'd read everything on the War of the Roses. Her final paper was good enough to be published. When Constance checked one of her beautifully cited reference materials, she discovered that Angela had plagiarized a man writing two decades earlier, Dr. Harold Moss, at Harvard. She invited her to come to her office. She had brewed a cup of tea, hoping it would soothe.
Angela didn't even blink. What color was her hair? Like the inside of a yam, a pale orange. Her blouse was white with small red buttons, and embroidered roses on the collar. She had big hands that looked raw, as if she washed them a lot in harsh soap. Angela had wanted to test her professor, to see how good she really was. Hence the intentional plagiarism. Constance knew that was nonsense. The girl got stuck for time and panicked. Then she tried to talk her way out of it.
Constance admired her moxie. Was that a word anyone used anymore, moxie? Sam trimmed her nails. Eunice was talking. Her hair was bushy, copper streaked with gray. She had a pleasant voice for such a big girl. Gullible, yes. Constance jerked her foot back.
Sam clipped the last nail, on the little toe of Constance's right foot, then wheeled her from her bathroom back into her bedroom. Eunice spread a blanket across her lap. The blanket didn't quite cover her feet, which were now slippered, yet distinctly cold. She could never be comfortable when her feet were cold.
Related Searches. Lapp checked the skein Constance had taken from the peg on the wall, then consulted her inventory book and assured Constance that the lot number was the same. At dinner she wore make-up. Nine Stories by J D Salinger. I love short stories.
A smell of lilac came in on the breeze lifting the gauze curtains in the study. Lilac was her favorite flower. They might have made a pretty wedding bouquet. She could feel William watching her. She smoothed one sleeve of her dress with her free hand. She brought the glass to her lips, then lowered it.
Paranormal Elements with Bites of Reality The Magic Heart, by Anne Leigh Parrish, is an eclectic collection of three short stories. In Trial By Luck, an engaged. The Magic Heart book. Read reviews from world's largest community for readers. Three stories of love and other such complications by Anne Leigh Parrish.
What reason did she give? There were too many to count. They rolled through her mind, as her gin and tonic warmed in her hand. The breeze was a comfort, then it died, the curtains stilled, and she found her voice. Not even when she returned the ring.
She thought he might remark on that, at least. Choosing it was probably their most intimate moment. What he had first presented her with was a thin band that had belonged to his mother. The look on her face — shock that he would take such a step at all — was misinterpreted. He chided himself for not understanding how badly she would want her own ring, not one someone else had worn, however happily, for over forty years. At the jeweler's he talked her into a larger diamond than she thought appropriate, or which looked good on her hand. Of course, it was beautiful.
Diamonds always are, and this was quite a good one. E color, very, very small inclusions, round cut. Two point three carats. The short story leaves no room for error. My friend, Anne Leigh Parrish , has mastered the form. We met at a University of Washington Extension course in literary fiction writing — not that she needed it.
With heart and honesty, she pulls you into the lives of women who are trying to move forward and find their true selves in spite of past hurts and those who would dismiss or deny their strengths. As the title implies, they might start out sidelined by guilt, emotional-scaring and self-doubt, but by the end of the story, either manage to break free in sometimes dramatic fashion or arrive at a new understanding about themselves.
I would describe Parrish as a feminist writer, but her message never feels heavy-handed. She tackles her most political subjects — racism and abortion — in short allegories with some humor. Magic realism is also used to highlight how blind to the truth people can be.
I could go on siting more stories I enjoyed, but I want to give Anne a chance to answer some questions. So here we go:.
First of all, congratulations on your third collection! Is there a secret to your productivity or do you just superglue your butt to the chair and write until the bond wears off? D E Fredd. Siobhan Fallon. Nina Allan. Shannon Cain. Paul Kane. Women Aloud produced by Ian Skillicorn. Best European Fiction edited by Aleksander Hemon. Nineteen Seventysomething by Barry Divola. Barry Divola. Yiyun Li. Rachel Kendall. Attention Please Now by Matthew Pitt. Fog Gorgeous Stag by Sean Lovelace. Storm Warning by Vanessa Gebbie. Pee on Water by Rachel B Glaser.
Rachel B Glaser. Ralph Robert Moore. Karen Joy Fowler.
Vanessa Gebbie. Sean Lovelace. Matthew Pitt. Quiet Americans by Erika Dreifus. Corpus Christi by Bret Anthony Johnson. Cold Hand in Mine by Robert Aickman. Starlings by Erinna Mettler. The Collected Stories of Carol Emswhiller. Carol Emshwiller. Julie Ann Weinstein. Erinna Mettler. Bret Anthony Johnson. Salley Vickers. Erika Dreifus. From Dark Places by Emma Newman. Color Plates by Adam Golaski.
Pomegranate Stories by Gay Degani. Mr Fox by Helen Oyeyemi. Memory Wall by Anthony Doerr. A Book of Blues by Courttia Newland. Courttia Newland. Anthony Doerr.