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“Listen closely, for the songs can still be heard drifting across the Siberian landscape,” my Grandfather would start; his eyes shining like two small droplets of water.
“A chant, a drumbeat, the sound of dancing feet shuffling along the periphery of dark shadows unnoticed. We are the keepers of the reindeer, the people of the Chukotka, and for centuries we have danced upon the cusp of earth’s frozen crown like moths dancing around a campfire. We would move from the Sea of Okhotsk to the Kamchatka Peninsula,” he continued, “then inland over the Gydan Range until we hit the Kolyma River.”
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| Author: |
Brenda Clotildes |
| Dated: |
Sunday, January 14 2007 @ 06:00 AM EST |
| Viewed: |
1512 times |
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| I took a deep breath and opened the door. Alex stood on the step, dressed in a crisp white shirt that emphasized his tan and neatly pressed black trousers. His eyes widened as his gaze traveled up and down my body.
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The lights were low, the music soft, and Sondra and I were snuggled side by side on the couch, as close as we could get. She looked up, into my eyes, smiled, and brought my lips close to hers. Her eyes closed, as did mine. The loud buzzing of the phone stopped us dead. I looked at the phone and saw that the number on the screen indicated it was the commissioner.
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| Author: |
Ann Tiffany |
| Dated: |
Saturday, November 11 2006 @ 09:00 AM EST |
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1362 times |
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In wartime you get used to disturbed nights, nights when sirens wake you from sleep, nights when you climb out of bed groggily, slip into your siren suit and make your way to the air raid shelter. There is one good thing about an air raid from a child's perspective though and that is that if you have been up during the night for a raid, then you don't have to go to school until after lunch the next day. The air raid shelter became our haven during this time, the place we straggled to wearily night after night.
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| Author: |
Karin Macphail |
| Dated: |
Friday, November 03 2006 @ 08:00 AM EST |
| Viewed: |
1182 times |
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| Our old farm house was on a gentle rise overlooking Townsend Bay. We spent our summer vacations there, in the land of my mother's people. No matter that we lived our regular life for most of the year, eight hundred miles away, for two generations; whenever we were about to return to that far off place, someone always asked "When are you coming home again?"
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| Author: |
Karin Macphail |
| Dated: |
Friday, November 03 2006 @ 07:59 AM EST |
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1031 times |
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| Midnight was a cussed buster. Such were Uncle Welland's words. He knew of the pony from Mr. Rampal's place and also said that, "Dougie Rampal's knack is that he could sell water to a whale. I says, 'Dougie why in bejesus are you wasting that fine blarney on pigs? Cry for shame man, you ought to be in Parliament.' "
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| Author: |
Brenda Clotildes |
| Dated: |
Friday, October 27 2006 @ 10:15 AM EDT |
| Viewed: |
1157 times |
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| I lay stunned, sprawled on my stomach on the gritty pavement. Dynamic oil swirls behind my eyelids dimmed in intensity as the motorcycle rolled slowly between me and the setting sun. I could hear the crunch of its tires on the pavement and feel the heat of its engine. I struggled to draw my knees underneath me, preparing the rise. The rumble of the idling engine grew to a roar, and the cycle took off in a rush.
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