Download PDF Mosaic Lights: Poems & Essays: second edition ([email protected] Press Book 2)

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Books By nancy vorkink machin. Java's Daughter:: Dispatches mosaic seventy Volume 8 Oct 16, Tear Drop: Prisms of Grief mosaic seventy press May 1, More Information. Anything else? Provide feedback about this page. Back to top. Get to Know Us. Amazon Payment Products. English Choose a language for shopping. Amazon Music Stream millions of songs.

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Gabby was three, in red trunks and a t-shirt, matching red water wings. She was husky and fair, full-cheeked like her father. She was already ill, but there were no indications, nothing that could be seen without a CAT scan. Sally tilts the rearview as if she might suddenly find her girl in the back, dozing in her car-seat. Her chest heaves. She almost sobs, stifles it. She rolls down the window, breathes in burnt air, and quickly rolls it back up. At Finley, the lot is nearly full. By the entrance she sees an ambulance, the flashing yellow lights look pale against the hazy yellow sky.

She sees a woman standing on the curb lift her respirator to take a long pull on a cigarette. Once inside, she sees a line, mostly elderly, or women with small children. The faces are white or brown, anxious or bored, or both.

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Many eyes are trained on small screens in the palms of hands. At the head of the line, a man is taking information, jotting on a clipboard. She suspects she will not be permitted to enter. Who can she ask? Each is engaged, answering questions, enunciating every syllable. She understands, they mean to project a sense of calm and order, but the slow, deliberate mannered speech has always produced the opposite effect in her. Not always. She finds a space on the end of a wooden bench, sits, breathes.

Occasionally one of double doors swings open and she hears the low roar of many conversations, glimpses long rows of cots occupied by bodies and backpacks. When the door closes, nearby voices become distinguishable. And, of course, the wind. Jack, my husband, put a few things in the SUV and pushed us all out the door. It was terrifying. Tuxedo hid behind some boxes in the garage. God help him. She interrupts a woman speaking to one of the Red Cross workers. The Red Cross worker points to the back of a long line leading to another Red Cross worker. Can I look? Sally pulls her phone out of her back pocket.

Maybe Kaiser, too. The thought of going into a hospital again … Sally, you there? The door swings open and she bolts through. She scans the room. She looks for a white Stetson, a bald head, a frail man on a cot. She looks for a deep red aura.

This venture feels as hopeless as was the search for an oncologist with a new opinion. The search for solace in so many glasses of Cabernet. Though traffic is slow her mind is racing ahead. What was Graham doing in New York? Why does it matter? What will she say to him? How will she be with him? What will she ever do without Willoughby? Yes, people grieve differently. Of course, they fucking do.

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Willoughby could say it. He said it all the time. In fact, Willoughby said very little on the phone.

How Do You Write a Poem?

Do you remember where that is? She remembers the mouth sores and poor appetite — she remembers holding out a spoonful of soup or Jello and waiting with a smile pasted on her face. Why this should be the case, she has no idea. Yes, she remembers the petting zoo. Gabby was was robust then, and willful, intent on straddling a potbelly pig. She had a fit. Thousands of homes destroyed, tens of thousands of acres, vineyards and woodland, so much fuel after five years of drought.

Tubbs, Nuns, Redwood Valley, Atlas, Cherokee, once the names of communities; now, and perhaps long into the future, will be remembered as the names of fires, and the burnt topography of chimneys and chasses and the charred black trunks of trees. And what about these crazy winds, calm for now, but El Diablo is expected to dance again tonight. At the entrance to the Fairgrounds is Grace Pavilion, a large hall with a tall ceiling, often used for banquets or exhibits, now lined with rows of cots.

To the left is a station for volunteers, beside it a large table with boxes upon boxes of chips and granola bars, Gatorade and bottled water. She steps back to avoid three small boys racing past, kicking a tennis ball. Other than the children, most of those in motion are wearing name tags, either Red Cross volunteers, or nurses or social workers. Here are people of all ages and colors, snacking or sleeping, or doting on the ubiquitous smart phones.

Present Reality in Historical Fantasy (Guy Gavriel Kay – Scholarship: & Dissertation)

She sees an old woman sitting, massaging her bare feet. An attendant arrives with a wheelchair and pushes the woman down a long aisle to an open door in the back where a sign says Medical Personnel Only. As they exit Grace Pavilion, she passes a volunteer, possibly a nurse, seated at a table. She hands Sally a folded white rectangle with elastic ear loops. She paces forward, one dread step after another. The sight of gurneys and bags of saline, the smell of iodine, these are the accoutrements of her worst nightmares.

Try not to lose it , becomes her mantra. Here again, this small ad hoc city is divided into communities, on one side of the building people are being treated for burns; on the other, smoke inhalation. Thirty paces ahead, in a bed by the rear wall of the facility, she sees him. As she gets nearer, she sees he is attached to an IV, and a cardiac monitor. His eyes are closed, and he appears to be sleeping.

Slowly a smile comes over his face. When his eyes open they are red and swollen. Her eyes swell with tears. His lids sink to half-mast. Foolish me. Blazing, ready to collapse. She was out somewhere, say the garden. She was at the store, running an errand. He seems to have faded out. Neither of them made it out. His eyes are closed. Again, he appears to have nodded off. And now the doctor is at his bedside.

Try not to lose it , she tells herself, walking back through the Grace Pavilion. She dodges a small army of volunteers, arms loaded with bags and boxes. All this urgency.


All this energy. Is it love? Where do people get the strength? She wants a big tall beer. She feels bewildered. Wait, she says, and stops to rest on the edge of a vacant cot. I think I get it. She sees in her mind a ceramic urn, with ashes in it. The child is already dead! When she steps out into the open air, she sees to the east a spectacular show of orange and pink and magenta on the bellies of the clouds, to the west a fiery red sun low on the horizon.

One for rain. One for Willoughby, of course. How many do you get? One for everyone. Graham is coming toward her. He wraps his arms around her. It feels like a before hug. Not now, anyway. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day. Whenever I can. How exactly does she phrase her question? And how without the tone giving her away? Pretty much just got in the way of their busy lives. Graham looks puzzled. The Jaddites are worshippers of the sun-god Jad, in whose honour the New Sanctuary in Sarantium was built. Jad has many similarities to the Christian god, including a human son: Heladikos.

Kay in Solaris Interview , url. Rather than focusing on differences, Kay focuses on similarities. Beyond the fact that they all worship bodies of the sky, the clearest example of how alike the religions are can be seen in the prayers of the Asharites and the Jaddites:. They lowered their veils and prayed then in the open spaces to the one god and his beloved servant Ashar, their exposed faces turned to where Soriyya was, so far away. LoAR , They prayed in that simple, unadorned space to the one god and the life-giving light of his sun, their faces turned to where an emblem of that sun was set upon the wall behind the altar stone.

The Asharites in question are Muwardi warriors, religious fundamentalists from across the straits. Alvar was given the opportunity to travel and widen his horizons, but it is fair to assume that his childhood playmates were not all so lucky. However, not questioning what they have been told by their clerics and rulers is their failure, and such ignorance is the reason why the same conflicts are fought again and again throughout history: if no one questions the tenets that brought them to a certain point, they will undoubtedly find their way there again.

Jehane, Ammar and Rodrigo form an unlikely threesome of Kindath, Asharite and Jaddite, their relationship echoing that between their religions. As noted, the Jaddite and Asharite beliefs are not as dissimilar as the clerics and the wadjis have convinced their followers, and just so Ammar and Rodrigo are very much alike in many ways:. He had fought those five men side-by-side and then back-to-back with Rodrigo Belmonte of Valledo, whom he had never seen in his life, and it had been as nothing had ever been before, on a battlefield or anywhere else.

It had felt weirdly akin to having doubled himself. To fighting as if there were two hard-trained bodies with the one controlling mind. LoAR , Unfortunately, they are ultimately to be on different sides of the war. He knows it to be an impossible fight, knows that either the Jaddites of the north or the Muwardis of the south will break his homeland, but he has to fight: it is not a matter of faith, but a matter of a shared history, of culture. Jehane is caught in between the two men she loves: she would not be accepted by the Jaddites, nor by the Muwardis but she has to chose.

She follows Ammar, and leaves Rodrigo with his wife Miranda and their fellow Espera? It does not matter who won because, either way, one of the three is gone. Al-Rassan has been broken; and, either way, the surviving protagonists are hurting. The Lions of Al-Rassan is incredibly pertinent today, its many conflicts not unlike those faced by our own primary world: some are caused by fundamentalists of various beliefs, some are fought for economic and territorial reasons.

This is an undeniable rule, and yet it is often forgotten during conflicts that war is waged on actual people, and not an abstract nation. In Tigana , Guy Gavriel Kay explores morality and sexuality to the limit, blurring the lines between good and evil until his readers doubt either exist, at least in pure form. His structural and narrative complexity far exceeds the genre expectations held by many critics and scholars.

In it, Kay encourages his readers to be sceptical of all they read, including his own work, through stressing the creative aspect of all writing. The Lions of Al-Rassan bridges the above questions of morality and trustworthiness in a timely examination of religious tolerance and cultural acceptance. Bruun, Patrick , Bra B? Kr e. Burger, Douglas A. Gunnes, Erik , Bra B? Holmberg, John-Henri , Fantasy: Fantasylitteraturens historia, motiv och f? Johansson, Annika , V? Le Guin, Ursula K. Leitch, Vincent B. Lunden, K? Marty, Martin E. Merwin, W. Moltmann, J? Morse, Donald E.

Ordway, Holly E.


Phillimore, J. Pringle, David gen. Rabkin, Eric S. Robinson, Jr. Schmunk, Robert B. Tolkien, J.

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Toolan, Michael J. Powered by WordPress and Sliding Door theme. Skip to content. Declaration I declare that this thesis is my own work and that all critical and other sources literary and electronic have been specifically and properly acknowledged, as and when they occur in the body of my text. T, The Ygrathen sorcerer Brandin wreaked a horrible vengeance on the people of Tigana for the death of his son: he wiped their name from memory. When Brandin once asked her if he would be attractive to her without that power, he almost caught her out.