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March 2007

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Subject:
From:
Andrea Oliver <[log in to unmask]>
Reply To:
Miami University Creative Writing Faculty <[log in to unmask]>
Date:
Sat, 3 Mar 2007 06:27:32 +0360
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   The boy tried to speak, but he raised his voice. No, I couldnt stand it all over again. Twould cut in to the places where Ive got calloused. Seeing through the others stupor the beginnings of an irresolute opposition, he flung himself upon him in a strange and incredible appeal, crying out, Oh, you must! You got to go! commanding and imploring in the same incoherent sentence, struggling for speech, and then hanging on Nathaniels answer in a sudden wild silence. It was as though his next breath depended on the boys decision. 
   The congregation responded in a timid inarticulate gabble, above which rose Deacon Bradleys loud voice, -- Our soul is escaped even as a bird out of the snare of the fowler. The snare is broken and we are escaped. He read the responses in a slow, booming roar, at least half a sentence behind the rest, but the minister always waited for him. As he finished, he saw the sexton standing in the open door. A little more steam, Jehiel, he added commandingly, running the words on to the end of the text. 
   As he passed the door to the rooms of the Ladies Auxiliary Society he noticed that it was ajar, and saw through the crack that there was a sleeping figure on the floor near the stove -- a boy about sixteen. When Jehiel stepped softly in and looked at him, the likeness to his own sister struck him even before he recognized the lad as his great-nephew, the son of the child he had helped his sister to care for all those years ago. 
     In   the   daybeforeyesterdayshortlyafterelevenoclock    Night,   the

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