"The Fall" by Brooke Sudderth

We are one. The rhythmic pounding of the horse’s hooves beneath me hastens as a gust of crisp September air fills both him and I with renewed energy. Strands of long white hair intertwine with my fingers as the wind flows through my horse’s mane. My hair mirrors his, windswept, as it streams out behind me with the force of his gallop.

Every movement is pronounced. Beneath me, the horse feels like a coiled spring. The electric force of his energy buzzes through me. I feel him slowly pulling against the bit, the reins going taut in my hands. Through the reins, I feel his every motion. Every step grows faster. The sky is a flowing blue sheet arcing above us, its stoic clouds racing past as though it is they, not us, that are in motion.

Ahead, the fence stands three feet tall, striped blue and red poles like sticks of candy. We can both taste it. The horse’s chiseled yellow ears snap in the direction of the jump. With gentle, steady pressure against his mouth I pull him to a stop. He weaves back and forth in a serpentine twist, tossing his head in defiance. A sudden motion over the hill draws an inquisitive flick of his left ear, and I follow with a glance. Four figures are striding towards us – my little mother and my father in his plaid shirt, followed by their two friends. They’ll be angry with me– I’m not supposed to be riding bareback.

A smile plays at the corners of my mouth. The horse snorts as I wheel him around, trotting several paces away from the fence. My mother shouts something, but I ignore the vague sound of her voice. The world seems to fold in around me, forming a tunnel leading to the fence. I gather the reins. Tuned in to my motions, the horse bends his neck, touching his chin to his chest in anticipation. I clench my calves around his sides, and he bursts into a gallop.

My veins grow hot as adrenaline pulses through me. The reins slide through my fingers as I give him freedom to run, and he takes it. I can hear nothing but the wind resonating in my ears as we run. The jump grows closer and closer and closer. He speeds up. Faster, I urge. I grip his mane. The coiled spring looses, and he hurls over the fence. His back arches. I am leaning over his neck, his mane and the wind in my face. This instant stretches out, and for a moment we feel like we are flying.

His front hooves strike the ground. The impact is jarring. I feel my teeth click together. Our pace is dizzying. Frantically I gather the reins, but it’s no good, I’ve let them fall too loose. The horse charges towards a steep hill, and for a panicked moment I think he’s going to jump off it. In the distance, my mother screams something. I can’t make it out. All I can see is the slope. My heartbeat is erratic. Then, the horse swerves left. I slide sideways on his bare back, clenching the reins with white knuckles. For one futile moment I struggle. Legs twisted on his back, arms around his neck, reins flapping in the wind.

And for a moment, I really am flying.

My head cracks against the ground. Pain lances through my back. The word is swirling white, and voices sparkle in the distance. The horse’s big muzzle sniffs at me intrusively. His huge black eyes search mine innocently. I sigh. Now, we are two.

"Seven Cubicles" by Anahita Kalianivala

I was born in Ohio. I like to flaunt it when the Buckeyes are winning. I don’t want to make excuses when they’re not. Columbus, Dayton, Akron. These are all cities people always ask about when they find out, but my pride washes away when I break the news: I only lived in Cincinnati for one year. They smile, turn their heads, and think to themselves “She’s not from Ohio.”

* * *

Whenever Dad is home before me, I know. I know because his car is in the driveway before 5:32pm. I know because he’s still in bed at half past eight. I know because the classifieds from six days ago have been dug up and are sprawled across the kitchen table open to “Employment.” Once, noticing the car wasn’t even relevant; he had a full day of work. But the boom-box sitting in the entryway against the cherry wood cabinet gave it away. There’s no reason to bring your belongings home from your office cubicle unless you were to go back tomorrow and find the cubicle is no longer yours.

He’s lost seven over my lifetime.

* * *

Blaming it on the economy makes sense but the Bush administration is a bigger enemy than I can muster the strength to fight. Every boss he’s had has been a friend or said “I really don’t want to do this to you.” But they did. I can’t fight people with two faces. Who else is there to blame? Being laid-off isn’t the employee’s fault. Do I run after the contractors who pulled out of jobs? The corporations who bought land but didn’t build on it? Where would my energy best be spent?

My dad has had a new job since March. For the first time that I can remember, he’s actually happy, not just going through the motions. And with his office just one block away from my mom’s school, they caravan to work everyday, side by side—leaving early enough for her and late enough for him. The running joke of the family is that my mom’s forgotten how to drive with all that exercise she gives to the passenger seat. Every so often they drive separately if Mom has a conference at another school or has to be a chaperone for the 8th grade dance.

* * *

I called my mom Tuesday afternoon to take a break from my studying. We exchanged “How was your day?”-s and our respective answers. She mentioned I should call my dad because the mechanic had news about my car in the shop. She was getting antsy on the phone and then explained it was because she was driving—straining her neck to hold the phone without hands.
“Why are you driving?” I asked, knowing I hadn’t forgotten a special activity for the day.
“I’ll explain later. My neck is really hurting right now.”

* * *

My dad answered the phone short of breath that didn’t seem to be recovering. “Hu-hu-hello?” he said.
“Dad? Dad?! Are you okay? What are you doing? Where are you?” In between all my questions were small moments of silence in which I supposed he was trying to muster the strength to answer. Now I know he wanted to decide which question to use to break the news.
“I’m on the-the treadmill. Let me. Call you. Back,” he puffed into the receiver.
“You’re at home? Okay. Geez, Dad, you scared the shit out of me.” I whispered to keep my voice down in the bookstore.
“Sorry. Sorry.”
“Yeah. Okay. Call me later.”

* * *

“What the hell is going on?”
“What are you talking about?” she said.
“What. is. going. on?”
“Anu, I don’t know what you mean.”
“You’re driving. Dad’s at home. What’s going on?”
Why I asked, I have no idea. I knew.

She asked me later how I knew. I asked her why she didn’t tell me sooner.

I said I called Dad to ask about my car like she told me to. She said she didn’t want me to have to deal with it on my own.

* * *

Where are you from?

…Cincinnati, Ohio.
…Ocean City, Maryland.
…Memphis, Tennessee.
…Fort Worth, Texas.

"How Art Impresses People" by Kurt Hare

As I wander through the exhibit of French Impressionist Paintings, I not only look at the artwork, but I also am interested in the people around me. People from all walks of life are engrossed in the paintings – young, old, middle class, students, artistic types, etc. Most are transfixed by the paintings, but there are a few young children that seem restless. I wonder if anyone else is feeling any of the same emotions that I feel as I gaze at these spectacular works of art. Do they visualize the same things I do? Do they feel the sense of awe at seeing these masterpieces?

The people around me stare intently at the Impressionist artwork. They seem impressed by the daubs of red, green, blue and yellow that dominates the work of Manet, Cezanne, Degas, Monet, Renoir, and Van Gogh. Some of them hold audio headsets up around their ears like cell phones. Others just look at the descriptions off to the side. Whether they have an audio headset or not, the viewers spend no more than three minutes viewing each painting on the walls. I go along with everybody else from painting to painting without an audio headset around my ear. Sometimes I’m an interloper in their midst; listening to the comments they make about these great works of art.

Van Gogh’s Chambre d’Arles captures the attention of many of the audience. They seem captivated by the simplicity of the room - the bright colors and the intensity of emotion that the painting inspires. His use of vivid colors and simple lines light up the room. The bed almost jumps out of the painting at the viewer because it seems to dominate the painting.

The one that interests me the most is Monet’s Le jardin de l’artiste a Giverny. I am impressed by the way Monet dabbed the purple flowers on the canvas and surrounded them with bright hues of red, white and pink of the other flora. Also, the way he painted a dirt trail straight down the middle under a forest of trees with green, red, and orange foliage is sublime. This path seems to lead an unknown two-story house. Whose house is it? (Later I find out it was Monet’s house.)

After an hour of being immersed in the world of the Impressionists, I begin to become weary - I am overwhelmed by the beauty of all of the paintings. I will have to return again to view these wonderful pieces that have captivated my imagination.

"Bolivar" by Laura Collier

We grew up there. At least until we were eight. We were a block away from the water. I can feel the seagrass on my skin even now. There was the board in the front corner of the bedroom that Mom and her brothers measured each other with each year. The photo of our great-grandfather pulling a fish out of the water hung on the wall next to the more current photos of the red snapper catch they had in ’85. The green oven that looked plastic next to the sink we used to be bathed in. We had a black and white T.V. with rabbit ears that never really worked. We’d watch for fifteen minutes and race outside when we heard the fireworks, maybe one would catch the neighbors thatch roof on fire again. Mom would chase us out the door with a can of Off and aerosol us down. The sound of the ice cream truck- I always picked the Tweety Bird Popsicle, yellow cream with blue bubblegum eyes. The men would go out in the evening and come back in the early morning with the mythical flounder catch. The flat grey body and beady eyes always looked stale if I happened to see a carcass or two the next day. I never went when I was asked.

We played under the house, chasing each other around the poles that held the house above the sand. We were soup-makers, using sandy mud, shells and twigs and occasional hermit crab, grasping up with its wiry claws, reaching out for dear life. Mom would make us rinse off our sandy feet and bottoms before we came into the house. It was dark sand, thick and sticky. We’d trek up to the Fort to dodge poison ivy and make up stories about the past and the hurricanes and the myths. Sitting on the top we could see the lighthouse- the faded white paint chipping off with each salty breeze. I stubbed my toe the last time I was there as a child. It bruised for months.

---

I went back during the summer a few years ago. We rode the ferry back and forth at night. I used to always guess the color we’d get. My favorite was red. The house was different, new appliances, new carpet and a color T.V. I went floundering that night, for the first time- a sense of nostalgia, a sense of finality. I didn’t get one, but I saw the glistening colors under the surface by the lantern light, gold and green in the murky mud. I woke up the next morning and drove back on the yellow ferry.

---

They went down to board the house up and took a picture to remember it by. I watched the storm come in on the news. I felt the surge and the waves that night and I knew that it was gone. The only pieces remaining were the stubs of telephone poles peeking out of the standing water on sand that will eventually be condemned.We grew up there. At least until we were eight. We were a block away from the water. I can feel the seagrass on my skin even now. There was the board in the front corner of the bedroom that Mom and her brothers measured each other with each year. The photo of our great-grandfather pulling a fish out of the water hung on the wall next to the more current photos of the red snapper catch they had in ’85. The green oven that looked plastic next to the sink we used to be bathed in. We had a black and white T.V. with rabbit ears that never really worked. We’d watch for fifteen minutes and race outside when we heard the fireworks, maybe one would catch the neighbors thatch roof on fire again. Mom would chase us out the door with a can of Off and aerosol us down. The sound of the ice cream truck- I always picked the Tweety Bird Popsicle, yellow cream with blue bubblegum eyes. The men would go out in the evening and come back in the early morning with the mythical flounder catch. The flat grey body and beady eyes always looked stale if I happened to see a carcass or two the next day. I never went when I was asked. We played under the house, chasing each other around the poles that held the house above the sand. We were soup-makers, using sandy mud, shells and twigs and occasional hermit crab, grasping up with its wiry claws, reaching out for dear life. Mom would make us rinse off our sandy feet and bottoms before we came into the house. It was dark sand, thick and sticky. We’d trek up to the Fort to dodge poison ivy and make up stories about the past and the hurricanes and the myths. Sitting on the top we could see the lighthouse- the faded white paint chipping off with each salty breeze. I stubbed my toe the last time I was there as a child. It bruised for months.

---

I went back during the summer a few years ago. We rode the ferry back and forth at night. I used to always guess the color we’d get. My favorite was red. The house was different, new appliances, new carpet and a color T.V. I went floundering that night, for the first time- a sense of nostalgia, a sense of finality. I didn’t get one, but I saw the glistening colors under the surface by the lantern light, gold and green in the murky mud. I woke up the next morning and drove back on the yellow ferry.

---

They went down to board the house up and took a picture to remember it by. I watched the storm come in on the news. I felt the surge and the waves that night and I knew that it was gone. The only pieces remaining were the stubs of telephone poles peeking out of the standing water on sand that will eventually be condemned.

"Three Days of New Orleans" by Brooke Sudderth

Day 1: Gas Station

The gas station next to the Mont Leon is empty as my aunt and I walk to the counter with glass Coke bottles in hand. Street lights filter through the glass doors from outside, yet the city seems louder at night than in day. Sounds of loud conversation from the streets weave into the background as my aunt and I set our Cokes on the counter. Aunt Mel takes out her wallet. The girl behind the counter barely seems to notice us. She smacks her gum and scratches her head with long fake fingernails. A sudden sound from the interior makes her lift her head. My gaze follows. I see a teenage boy – he looks about my age – sprinting for the door. His pockets look lumpy. The girl screams a string of curses. A dull thud sounds as she shoulders past Aunt Mel, smacking bodily into her. Her footsteps tap on the cheap linoleum floor as she lunges for the boy. He darts out the door, she chases him. Alone, Aunt Mel and I leave our Cokes on the counter, enfolded in the ceaseless sounds of the night.

Day 2: Bourbon

Bourbon street is a riot of neon color. People cluster beneath balconies, hands outstretched in hope to catch falling Mardi Gras beads. MeMaw points to the right, to two tall, statuesque women in six inch heels. “Brooke, would you believe those are men?” she laughs in her Creole accent. She promises to take me to hear them sing when I turn eighteen. A man slumps against a decrepit brick wall, drinking from a beer bottle three feet tall. Beside him, a huge smirking face forms the entrance to a building. The face sneers at me, holding a cigar crookedly in his mouth. A group of young men stumble in the door, laughing. Someone taps my aunt on the shoulder. She whirls to find a gaunt man, holding his hands out, eyes round and hopeful. My mother clenches my arm. Laughing, Aunt Mel hands him a to-go container of leftover spaghetti. His eyes light up. I wonder why my friends’ mothers won’t let them come here.

Day 3: Tour

Daylight washes the French Quarter in a disguise of cleanliness and wealth as we roll over the ancient streets, peering out from inside the carriage. The driver points at landmarks and explains their significance in his Creole accent. I wonder if people who aren’t Cajun can understand him. The horse plods past an ornate balcony, rimmed with a wrought-iron fence embellished with black fleur-de-lis. Lenny Kravitz lives here, the tour guide says. I smile and say nothing. Aunt Mel points to something on the other side of the road, and we all turn to look. Policemen form a semicircle around a figure lying on the ground. I stare. The figure doesn’t move. “He’s dead,” I head one of the officers say. My mother and aunt look on for a moment longer, then resume surveying the buildings. As though nothing happened. The tour guide urges the horse forward and begins to tell us about the Voodoo Queen.

"Touch" by Anahita Kalianivala

Thin straggly curls. Left over after the whole thing had been picked. Pulled. Teased. Sprayed apart. 360 degrees of mocha frizz. Now only remnants. Of her conditioned. Moussed. Defrizzed hair.
Extending out like a halo, the afro puts a smile on her face and all those around her.

Few things worth feeling. One. Overcoming their initial shock and surprise. Two. Reveling together in sheer delight. Three. Acknowledging their extended arms asking to touch.
Not four: self-consciousness.

It all started on a relaxed evening at home as she brushed her fingers through her hair, idly preparing for bed. Twirling the loose coils at her temples. Pulling the tight springs at the nape of her neck. Then, in rebellion to the natural pattern, she shoved all five fingers into her bangs. She wriggled at the roots. She pulled forcefully forward. A glance in the mirror showed her a chunk of hair extending straight out from her forehead. While the other curls waited to be pulled out of line.

The same disequilibrium occurred naturally after a good night's rest. If she slept on her back, she woke up to a cool neck. And five extra inches of height. Hair flat at the back and vertical at the top. If she tossed and turned, she woke up Flavor of the Week. Hair parted at the ears like an ice cream cone. No matter the slumber, every morning her curls were called upwards to heaven, but lost the battle to gravity. Physical evidence of an immortal fight.

Only teeth of professional separation could help control the chaos. Usually a curly girl's worst nightmare, she held the wand between her fingers. Bristles peeled curls apart, loosening bonds of hair. Slowly they transformed from composed swirls to exploding sparks. Ignoring every request to abstain, pushing outward from the bubble: the daily life of restrain.

Few curls stayed. Intact. Product wound tightly. These. Kept her back. Kept her grounded. Bound to the former state of affairs. Shiny. Still. Tamed. Intangible. No one would touch. But worry. One moved strand. And the style is askew.
She only knew to how to obey: keep people away; maintain the dignity of perfect curls.

But the five inch radius...
The black glow. Encircling her face. Brave. Incandescent. Intrepid. Tangible. Made bets for neatness. Off. Made shooing away of fingers. Welcomed.
…She could be touched.

"Solitude" by Kurt Hare

Running

Running clears my head and I often brainstorm about the next story I’m planning to write for my creative writing class. Thoughts bombard me and sometimes I can’t wait to get home to write them down. Lately I’ve been reflecting on how I’m going to write a story about my grandfather’s aunts and uncles who lived in Texas before World War I. I think that it will make an interesting narrative - they went through so much.

I enjoy stretching my limbs across eight miles, loping like a gazelle down on the leaf strewn trail. Sometimes it seems that I experience a sense of weightlessness as I run. I embrace the elements, even when it’s cold and wet. I tough it out and keep running. Sometimes, I run for pure pleasure or at other times it’s just a way to forget about the stresses of the week.

Relaxing

When I have a spare hour, I soak up sun rays sitting in a deck chair. I’m reading sports, humor, or mysteries – enjoying King, Christie, or Amis. If I don’t want to expand my mind with literature, I absorb the music of Aerosmith, Pink Floyd, or U2. Electronic Yahtzee or Solitaire are always fun when I have an hour to spare. If I’m in the mood and the weather is rather nasty, I curl up in a wing chair and immerse myself in the comedy movies of Jim Carey, Leslie Nielsen, or Bill Murray. Their slap stick comedies are so uproariously funny that I once I almost slipped out of my chair.

Reality

I spend many hours studying or writing in a tiny room surrounded by literature, medical texts, and scientific journals. On the evenings when I burn the midnight oil, I have to remind myself why I spend so many hours in solitude. Whether I am running, relaxing, or studying, I am a slave to solitude.

"Good Times There Are Not Forgotten" by Laura Collier

I wanted a shade tree with the checked tablecloth. Pulled chicken and corn on the cob- the old tree that we used to sit under. Mom would say “check-ed.” Someone corrects her but it’ll never stick. That property owner in the back corner of the pasture- burying his slave and money in the steamy King Cotton south. Those stars at night that are big and bright. Nights out in the hay pasture, straws sticking in our backs. Itchy but home. We used to play Batman on those bales.

Gotham was the ground.

Texas sage blooming purple at the entrance. Its gonna rain today. That slave haunts our land, rolling over the terraced pasture. We pulled the calf that day. The first time I’ve seen the miracle that they call life. We rode horses all day- just jumping on in the pasture. Bareback. Racing. Loping. Till she stumbled and went down.

Snickers was her name.

We had church at home. We sang the songs and said prayers for rain. Katie had to get stitches that time. Matt had been practicing nailing on the tree. The nail ripped her skin when she reached up for that last peach. I saw it. I saw her skin open and bleeding out.

She still has the scar.

That horse chased me into the barn. I jumped on the gate and the nail stabbed into my knee. I walked home, later poured blood out of my boot. My friend thought the squeaky board in the hallway led to the hole that the slave was buried in- but that floor was put in on a slab the year before. I used to hunt birds in the morning before school. I aimed at a black bird, I took the stroke with my index and with the sharp pop of the gun, the bird landed on the ground. It was foggy that day. I saw the blue feathers laying on the ground.

Blue birds were Mom’s favorite.

I had a favorite creek, quiet and slow- my favorite place. Cold from the spring. I’d tuck my toes in the water and make the slow waterfall run faster. I found the dog in it during winter. The dog that had been around the longest. One of the only times I’ve seen Dad cry was shoveling dirt on top of the bag that held her. The prairie sky was wide a high. We used to stop and swim in the big creek behind the house.

It turned green and people got sick.

Cookies and sweat smelled like home- not like others. I burned my first batch of brownies. I had tried hard- I forgot to set the timer. I wanted that picnic- the wicker basket and unspilled kool-aid.

Mom still says “check-ed.”

"Union" by Brooke Sudderth

Due to the format of this piece, please visit the document at GoogleDocs: http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=dc5pnhcc_2fvgnf3g7&hl=en

"Indian English" by Anahita Kalianivala

baap•re [bap•re] interjection. (1) an expression used as an exclamation; can have both a genuine or sarcastic tone (2) analogous to “oh my!” or “oh my God!”

I walk in the door after getting off the school bus, frustrated as usual. I have yet to understand the kid four doors down who has the privilege of being dropped at his front door. It’s because he walks with a severe limp—legs, arms, and expression crooked since birth. He’s always ripe with a lash of anger at the world, that is, minus the Bible and Billy Graham.

Before I see her I hear the clicking of her knitting needles and know she’s there. Nana’s sitting on the loveseat parallel to the kitchen bar counter, her usual perch after her afternoon nap and before her evening tea. I walk down the hall into the living room, throw my backpack against the bar, sigh my way into the kitchen, bang out a glass of water from the fridge, sigh my way back to the futon, and plop heavily onto the overgrown cushion.
“Baapre! What happened today?” she asks, her gentle accent bragging British reign with a touch of western India.

bha•faat [ba•fat] noun. (1) a verbal blunder, like spreading confidential information or calling someone by the incorrect name

My dad is famous for bhafaats. But the real kind. Every time I think I’ve made a bhafaat I have to self-correct: I’m always getting them confused with generally stupid mistakes—spoken or done. But Dad takes home the cake for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time.
“So, what do you think about these new MP3 players? Are they cool?” he asks.
Are they cool?, I think to myself. Weird he asks. He must want something. “Why are you asking me about an MP3 player? Do you plan on getting one?”
“No I’m just wondering what they are.” He wants something.
“Dad, if you’re thinking about getting me one for my birthday, I don’t want it.” Mom shoots a glare from the kitchen. He blew it.

chup [chʊp] verb. (1) to command someone to be quiet; can be used towards an offensive or neutrally-charged comment, but always indicates that the listener doesn’t like the subject matter (2) analogous to “shut up”

Buttons is our ten-year-old Maltipoo. Her six pound size keeps her from being physically intimidating but she certainly doesn’t relent with her bark, yapping at anything that moves. She keeps her perch on the entryway carpet warm, watching for possible sidewalk intruders. Buttons has a very real sense of territory; unfortunate considering the community mailbox is directly in front of our house.

For less serious threats, Buttons will emit a low, short growl. Like her belly is an air bag and somebody just squeezed. The bark just pops out of her. Soft and sweet. Office rush is prime time and her pops emit in rhythm.
“Grr. Rrr,” Buttons will say without a lift of her tiny head.
“Chup!” will come Nana’s high pitched silencing device.
“Grr. Rrr. Rrr.”
“Chup.”
“Grr. Rrr.”
“I said chup, Buttons!” every syllable pronounced to convey the seriousness of her command, her voice trailing high from the kitchen.

kha•lass [ka•las] verb. (1) to say that something is finished (2) used in storytelling; can indicate that something once hopeful has ended disappointingly or humorously

“Khalaas,” Nana says flatly as she sits at the kitchen table knitting, listening to another of Grandpa’s stories, a tangent off one that started about keeping the books. At the moment she spoke, he had trailed off into another story about an African American he couldn’t understand.
“They just talk so fast. And eat their words. You know Anahita, you eat your words. Just like them. Don’t do that,” he would say.
I’d roll my eyes. “I don’t. eat. my. words.”
He’d continue on, ignoring my defiant defense. “Then I had to ask her, I said, Excuse me, ma’am I just cannot understand what you’re saying,” he’d reenact with mock innocence. “And she just kept on talking fast and swallowing her words.”
“Khalaas,” Nana said, meaning to mock the ill-fate of someone who displeased Hormaji Kalianivala.
As my grandfather kept telling the story, his accent a mix of old age, Indian descent and American residency, I thought He never lets it occur that perhaps that woman couldn’t understand him either.

"Soaring" by Kurt Hare

I’m being lifted up in the air like a ballet danseur. My feet seem to lift high off of the ground. I’m gliding through the air and soaring into the night’s sky. I’m soaring into a whole new universe - defying the laws of gravity.

It’s joyful and exhilarating.
I feel a sense of euphoria.
The experience is liberating.
Whether I’m going to Egypt or Peoria
I’m on top of the world.

I can see the city lights from up above, which look like twinkling stars. Once I pass the cities and fly over the rural areas, everything becomes pitch black like you are almost in outer space. I get to soar with the airplanes, which seem to be moving faster than the speed of light.

If this is possible, maybe other things that seem impossible are attainable.

All of the sudden, I feel a weird sensation. I’m tumbling to the ground.

“Fantasy prone people are especially likely to recall dreams from the previous night.” D. Watson, 2003

I hear voices talking around me. Someone mutters, “Their car was speeding when they hit him.”

“Is he hurt?”

“I don’t know, but he needs to be taken to the hospital as soon as possible.”

I hear someone blurt out, “He’s been in a coma for over seventy-two hours.”

“Look, I think he’s trying to wake up.”

“Is he moving his hand?”

“I do not believe that I am now dreaming, but I cannot prove that I am not.”
Bertrand Russell (1872-1970)

“What are lucid dreams?”

“They’re dreams where people become aware that they are dreaming. People even test their state of consciousness.”

“How?”

“If they can perform an unusual act like floating in the air, they know they are dreaming.”

“Is that what happened to that boy that’s in a coma?”

I struggle to wake up, but it feels like lead weights are on my eyelids. I want to tell them that I’m okay, but I slip into unconsciousness again. Then all of the sudden, I feel someone gently shake my shoulder, “Hey! It’s time to get up for class.”

“Those dreams that on the silent night intrude, and with false flitting shapes our minds delude…are mere productions of the brain. And fools consult interpreters in vain.”
Jonathan Swift, 1727

Hallucinations of the sleeping mind are vivid, emotional, and bizarre. It was such a lucid dream. I knew that floating in the air was absurd, but it felt so real.

"Enter: The Real World" by Laura Collier

Because of formatting, this innovation is available on GoogleDocs.



Please follow this link: http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=dc5pnhcc_1c2pj6jdz&hl=en

Brooke's Discussion of Imitations

The online creative nonfiction journal, Brevity, boasts a multitude of pieces, varied in style and purpose, unified by their length of under 750 words. Imitating this genre proved a challenge due to the fact that such variation exists between each individual piece. Thematically, the pieces are incredibly different, ranging from simple memories to sweeping political commentary. Thus, in order to find aspects of the piece that could be subject to imitation, it was important to look at grammatical and stylistic traits present throughout Brevity.

Images prove the hallmark of the Brevity piece. In an essay of only 750 words or less, a beginning, middle, and climax (of some sort) must be achieved much more rapidly than in an ordinary nonfiction piece. Therefore, each author must use concrete images – showing rather than telling – to demonstrate their point.

In my imitations, I drew some distinct features present in most Brevity pieces in order to build tension. Repetition is extremely prevalent. Authors use repeated words or phrases in order to quicken the passage and give it a feeling of forward motion. Often, authors discard ordinary grammar rules and litter their essays with fragments. The use of fragments, like the use of repetition, works to give the passage tension. Varying the sentence length adds a layer of complexity to the passage that is necessary if the reader is to be left feeling satisfied at the end.

Often, authors use an extended metaphor to tie their pieces from beginning to end. In my imitation piece, “The Fall,” I worked in a metaphor of being one with the horse in order to tie the events in the beginning of the essay to the revelation in the end. Such revelations are not uncommon in Brevity, in which the author comes to a realization in a short time.

"The Fall” also works to incorporate aspects of repetition and pacing. In this piece, I focus on a memory of riding my horse. The horse’s movements are told through repetition and heavy use of sensory images in an attempt to replicate patterns prevalent in Brevity. My feelings here are all internalized, as the piece is told in the first-person. Like the vast majority of Brevity pieces, I also use the present tense, in order to make the reader feel like he or she is truly drawn into the moment.

However, not all pieces follow this pattern, which is why in my imitation titled “Three Days of New Orleans,” I took a vastly different approach. This imitation, like many Brevity pieces, is a scattered collection of images – memories from my adolescent years. Thus, it follows the “abstract” pattern of many Brevity pieces, taking on a writing style that is more enigmatic.

Memories are present in nearly all Brevity works, and are usually portrayed through the use of heavy sensory imagery – color and sound and scent – so that the reader is drawn deeply into the scene. This abstract piece contains no great epiphany. Rather, it consists of a set of significant moments from my trip to New Orleans, in which the beauty and splendor of the city contrasts with the poverty it swims in. I use the present tense here, as well, but I’ve separated the piece into three sections to give a surreal feeling to the passage.

Brooke's Discussion of Innovation

Innovation in Brevity is a difficult concept. Brevity, the online journal of short nonfiction essays of 500-750 words in length is littered with essays pushing the conventions of grammar, organization, and chronology. Thus, finding something that hadn’t been done, but still fit within the constraints of the journal itself, proved a challenge. For my innovation piece, I had to go beyond pushing the confines of grammar and organization.

I chose to create and abstract piece, using two real documents to provide the tension for my innovation piece, “Union.” The documents I chose to use were my wedding party list, to be handed out to guests as they arrive, in a first and second draft. Through use of these drafts, I highlighted how the mother of the groom had been excluded from the wedding upon final revision. Reasons for the mother being excluded are not important to the piece itself. Rather, I have tried to demonstrate a key issue that rose up in the wedding by using unconventional sources.

Brevity does not contain a piece using real documents to completely tell a personal narrative. Typically authors write a unified essay to some degree. I have broken the conventions of the journal by providing a real narrative, brought to the reader by outside sources, left completely intact and in their original form. (I was disinclined to actually scan them, as scanning the documents might push the confines of Brevity too far, even for innovation’s sake.)

As is typical with Brevity, the piece is very short, and follows an event from my (the author’s) life. However, typical Brevity pieces rely on delicately woven metaphor and accurate pacing to establish tension. I have bypassed this. Instead, I have chosen a straightforward method, using the real documents to add another layer of complexity. The intention of the piece, like all Brevity pieces, is to invoke thought. Hopefully I have succeeded in wrapping the piece in an aura of mystery while surpassing the conventions typically established by Brevity.

I have chosen to completely eliminate any material not actually written on the two drafts. Thus, I have purposefully left the reader guessing, while simultaneously breaking conventions of Brevity by excluding any sort of internalization of feelings, emotions, or memories. The tension in the essay derives from the fact that the mother has done something to illicit her not being invited to the wedding, but the reader is never really allowed to know what.

In using these documents and setting them up without any sort of external explanation, I have hopefully crafted a piece that the reader can recognize and make sense of. My intention with this innovative Brevity piece is to illustrate an event in my life in a unique, unconventional way.

Anahita's Discussion of Imitations

Imitation of a genre that attempts to be continually innovative is a daunting task. As a group, we decided that essays in Brevity that were innovative had changes in format, whereas our imitation texts would have changes in style or language. Essentially imitation texts are creatively constructed narratives, possible compositions including: listing of sentence fragments; disconnected vignettes; poetic style and/or appearance.

Based on my collection of essays, Issue 25, I chose to use the model of vignettes for my first imitation text that discusses my father’s recent job lay-off. Framing is an important component of short creative nonfiction and I decided to open the essay with a moment that shared something about me, but had deeper realized meaning at the end of the essay: the reason I didn’t live in Ohio very long is because we moved for my father’s job.

The essay reads like separate stories till two back to back sections of dialogue which context makes clear are connected. The flow of the essay is also dominated by the emotional heights of the narrative. When I am in distress, sentences are longer and pleading—with the use of rhetorical questions. These long sentences build tension and quicken the pace. When things come to a close and the news is sinking in, my sentences are short and obvious to slow the moments between them.

A characteristic evident in all Brevity pieces is that they force the reader to make certain connections and conclusions; everything is not laid out. This aids in the genre’s desire to be universal because people can easily adapt meaning to fit their own situations, taking the essays for what they want them to be. I attempted to create this situation by closing the essay with a guiding question: Where are you from? The answers tie back to the previous mention of Ohio, indicating to the reader that I’ve moved a lot. The connection that it’s for my dad’s job is left up to them to make.

My second imitation is a less serious moment, but these are often used by Brevity authors in attempt to get at some of life’s bigger issues. This essay deals with self-confidence and identity, though very lightly. I chose to adhere to a stricter narrative format with this essay—no section breaks and no vignettes. But I framed the narrative with two poetry-like stanzas at the beginning and the end. Our group chose to write to imitations, one purposefully deviating from the narrative form, in order to express that even more abstract essays are ‘normal’ Brevity standard. The ‘stanzas’ of my essay are composed of fragments and single-word statements. The first of both sets ends with an italicized complete sentence. The rest of the essay is conducted in regular narrative style.

The fragmented style is experimental writing but not innovative for Brevity essays; another component of our analysis included examining authors’ use of grammar conventions. Very often they disregard normal conventions in favor of composing and controlling every aspect of their piece. I felt this same artistry when deciding where the period should fall in my series of words or fragments. A simple move one space left or two spaces right made the paragraph read differently and the idea conveyed change. This essay takes on the strong characteristics of short creative nonfiction: heavy imagery, metaphor, and syntax composed of stacked phrases.

Exciting for a writer is the frame Brevity allows one to work in—even in adhering to standards, you can justly give it personalized, creative touches. Even abstaining from these spurts of creativity is a decision about craft in itself. Brevity allows much flexibility of those working within its genre, imitating its innovative style.

Anahita's Discussion of Innovation

As mentioned in the discussion of Brevity imitation texts, the focus of an innovative short creative nonfiction piece is upon its format. Because Brevity in itself is such a flexible genre, innovation becomes particularly difficult. Thus, our group restricted ourselves to composing just one innovative text. The idea of innovation with a genre such as this is analogous to Fairclough’s discussion of disembedded genres. He describes them as “lifted out of…particular networks of social practices where they initially developed” (Fairclough 68). With Brevity, the various formats are pulled out of their natural environment—disembedded—and used as a medium for the purpose of a short nonfiction essay.

Take for example my innovative text, modeled after a dictionary entry. In brainstorming the idea of using Gujarati words, particularly slang words, I noticed a pattern among them: they were most often used by dad or his mother. With the definitions of these words as the frame for my piece, I used the anecdotes in place of typical examples of usage. I chose anecdotes that illustrated moments with my father and grandmother and that used the respective words in context. In this way, I took the purpose of dictionary entries and disembedded them to match my uses in a Brevity-style piece.

I had to make many conscious choices with this piece, such as how to write the definitions and how many to provide. This was especially challenging because these are essentially idioms—Gujarati words I have grown up with all my life and have attached infinite shades of meaning to. Conveying these to an English-speaking audience was a daunting task. Combined with the restrictive word count, I found myself having to make major edits for length.

Through my evaluation of my innovation I realized I would have to offer the most concise definition in the denotative section and leave my anecdotes to speak the nuances in the connotative section of examples. Within the anecdotes, more typical Brevity writing is present: narrative format, rich with imagery that quickly conveys a message that would take longer to tell, and short sentences to slow pace and create impact. Because my anecdotes were character-driven I used dialogue as a medium to establish their personalities and behaviors. I made a conscious effort to portray the people present in the essay in a ‘human’ fashion, i.e. to let them speak for themselves through dialogue, rather than listing off what they looked like and acted like. I found this to be a particularly effective method because the essay’s large motifs are language, speech, and communication. Another component of this essay illuminated by these motifs is the pronunciation key. I included IPA transcriptions of each word so that readers unfamiliar with the language and its accent would have a reference point if they actually wanted to hear the Gujarati terms for themselves. This element was very important; the sound of these words coming out of their speakers’ mouths is just as important to understand as the meaning of these words.

Creating an innovative task allowed for a interesting study of the Brevity genre because it involved deciding both what is ‘natural’ for the genre and what is outside its preconceived boundaries. Luckily my efforts did not lead me to any troubling conclusions, but only affirmed by initial reactions as to how flexible a genre Short Creative Nonfiction can be.

Laura's Discussion of Imitations

In Issue 27 of Brevity, the mini-essays provided offered a broad scope of writing technique to research. Most of the technique of the writing depends on the structured design that the essayist chooses. In Issue 27, these were shown in simple vignettes, chapter format, and abstract paragraph form. These formats are best divided according to writing style and are placed into two main categories: standard essays and abstract essays. For both styles, there are specific similarities in style. There is more emphasis on telling the reader rather than showing the reader and more succinct use of character- there is simply less room for stories that are not direct parts of plot and less room for description of characters. Some of the particular similarities represented in each essay also include irony and the use of title. The title offers a glimpse into the story that the writer may not have had room to tell. This can dictate the tone of the piece and answer questions that are left unaddressed in the writing. For instance, in my standard essay, Bolivar, I used to title to tell the location of the beach that I am describing. I also used the title to tell more about the devastation that is described by citing a place that was destroyed in Hurricane Ike.

The standard essays are most like the essays published in Creative Nonfiction. These are usually done in paragraph style with a simple narrative and a chronological storyline. The classification of the piece is primarily determined by the writing style. Simple, straightforward narrative with an ‘easy to follow’ plot are implications of standard form. If these essays venture into any other format than paragraph style, they will typically use vignettes or chapters. Of the styles to choose from, this is the simplest to imitate because it is constructed mostly like the traditional essay but with more focus on direct imagery. For the standard essay that I designed, I chose to use vignettes with a chronological story told over time. My language was simple and straightforward. While I used imagery quite a bit, the images were in direct relation to the plot, rather than drawing from other, more abstract experiences.

The abstract style of essay fits less nicely into the Creative Nonfiction and makes Brevity into more of its own genre. This is done by short quips of narration and by allowing the imagination of the reader to fill in the gaps of the story that a traditional essay provides. These essays are designed in many ways. Some in short prose, others in a vignette style and others in chapter or chronological style. At first glance these appear to be the innovative pieces, the pieces that stretch the genre to its supposed limit. Because of the scattered train of thought and the disconnectedness between the subject and the prose, this style seems especially hard to imitate. However, under more severe examination, this abstract style is clearly not as innovative as it appears to be. The simplest reason behind this lies in the abstract model being as often published as the standard model. If this were the sample of innovation in the issue, there would be far too many examples for this to be pioneering text. The most important of the findings to focus on here was the use of imagery and the shortness of verse. These can also be divided into chapters or vignettes, but typically focus on a different subject matter per chapter or vignette.
In order to imitate this type of text, I had to channel my inner poet rather than my inner essayist. I chose to use a simple form for the writing, to showcase the free verse and disconnect in the writing.

In keeping with the essence of Brevity, it was necessary to create a spot to channel the writing and the imitations. Brevity is more than a simple publication, but an experience for writers and curiosity. We decided to put this into an actual website (blog) to showcase our work and imitate the community that is the Brevity population.

Laura's Discussion of Innovation

In attempting to imitate Brevity it was discovered that what the group initially thought was innovation in writing was not as innovative as it seemed. Per issue, there were about 1-2 texts that could be classified as innovative- in some issues were not any. The innovation in a piece was determined more by format and design than by simple text and narrative. The innovative piece in Issue 27 was constructed as a mini-memoir, told in chapter style and expressing all that a memoir takes on, but in much less length. This was a fresh look at the purpose of Brevity and experimented with the expectations and limitations of the criteria. In the rest of the sample, one of the other innovative texts was presented in question-answer form. This relied on imagery, succinct language and especially a disconnectedness of thought. This disconnect is not necessary for a Brevity essay to be innovative. The innovative text must have an innovative design or the writing must be so original that it does not resemble any of the style of the other essays published. This is an example of a disembodied genre.

In order to imitate the design of the innovative texts, it was necessary to create a format that would not allow for a typical narrative. I chose to use an itemized bank statement to format my essay. I used the totals for two months to set the foundation for my writing. I used short phrases and descriptive words to explain feelings about the totals- to give an inner look at my emotions and personality. This is one of the more obvious approaches to innovation because at first glance it breaks the formatting constraints of the typical essay. This is an example of how formatting is the primary way that innovation is expressed. In the mini-memoir in Issue 27, the use of innovation was subtle. The idea to use Brevity as a platform for a complete memoir was certainly new and broke through the generic constraints that the online journal implements.

However, the writing was not particularly innovative. At best, the writing would have been
classified as abstract, jumping to and from subjects that seem to not be connected. In the innovative style of writing, there is more variation between subjects. In some pieces, subjects seem to be in stream of conscious form or even sometimes a “mosh-pit” of ideas.

The beauty of innovation in Brevity is in experiencing creativity behind the writers’ thoughts. Although Brevity implements very vague guidelines, there is a precursor of the traditional essay and the standard style of essay is generally implied by the writer. The constrictions are put in place by the writers’ psyche, not the publication. But when the writer breaks these forms and makes use of the vagueness of authority, the beauty behind their creativity shines through- the possibilities are endless. At first glance, the online journal appears to be a “one-note” medium. But as the audience is able to read more and more issues and ponder innovation in the publication, there are many design choices that come to mind as simple breaks from the Brevity mold.

Kurt's Discussion of Imitations

The selections in Brevity Issue 28 are creative nonfiction essays ranging approximately from 300 to 750 words long. The topics in the Brevity issues deal with a range of emotions from joy to sadness. The purpose of these essays is to tell an interesting story that can be read in one setting. Some of them though take several readings, because there is usually a message in the essays that is not always obvious.

Many of them reflect on relationships between the narrator and a member of his or her family. Devices such as imagery, metaphors, and analogies are prevalent in all of the essays. For example, in John Griswold’s “Three Graces,” he uses the following simile: “In the Sunflower Café the waitresses sat down in booths with elderly customers and watched them shuffle photos of grandkids like decks of cards, as if looking for a good hand” (1).

My goal is to imitate the style and form of the essays that I read in this issue. Although my imitations do not convey the same tone as many of the essays, they do share a similar reflexive mood. In my essay “How Art Impresses People,” I focus on how Impressionist artists captivate the attention of the viewers. Just like Rita Rubin is inspired by the music she was surrounded by as a child in her essay, “Music Lessons,” I become engrossed in the images that are caught on the canvases.

The essays are always accompanied by a photograph which helps to set the mood. Choosing the right photograph for my essays was an integral part of each imitation. Each essay is told in the first tense and I use standard punctuation, sentence length and grammar. These all help to set the pace of the pieces in which I usually keep the paragraph length to four to five sentences. This is similar to most of the essays that I imitated which are composed of paragraphs using a conventional format. One essay that differs is entitled “Virus 1” which is written as one long paragraph.

Another device that I borrowed is the use of subtitles in my essay on “Solitude.” Changing the pacing and dividing this essay into three parts helps the reader focus on the three main subjects – running, relaxing, and reality that comprise this essay. I do not use the subtitles as a function of chronology like many authors do, but I think that it is an effective device to use when you are trying to focus on more than one subject that is related to the main topic.

All three narratives are responses to specific situations that I have experienced. They may or may not be situations that the reader has personally encountered, but my goal is to paint a visual picture that the reader can relate to in some way. Most of the Brevity essays and/or the imitations are probably not going to lead to social action, but I think they will be a form of entertainment to the reader.

Kurt's Discussion of Innovation

The piece that I have written entitled, “Soaring” is quite different than the narrative essays I wrote as imitations. I have used a combination of prose, poetry, dialogue, and quotes. I have also researched the subject of lucid dreams. The essay is based on an experience that I have had more than once and it was something that I had been always curious about.

Imagery is even more important in this essay so that I could convey the feelings that I experience during these types of dreams. Telling an interesting story is secondary to the primary purpose of the description of the experience. The style and format of this piece is also important since the piece is not a typical narrative. There is no universal length to the paragraphs which are pretty short and are offset by long stretches of dialogue. The quotes used set the mood for each section of the piece. Each quote makes a relevant statement in relation to the prose section that it accompanies.

Just like the essays in the Brevity issues, I chose a topic that many people can relate to. I want the reader to be entertained, but also to think about experiences they have had while dreaming. My main goal as in my other pieces is to paint a visual picture that reader can relate to in some way.

I found writing in this way more difficult because it is not in a strict narrative format and I found myself wanting to tell a story in the traditional way. The quotes that I have included helped me think about the piece in a different way, and break away from writing another imitation text. The piece does not really resemble any of the Brevity texts that are in Issue 28, except for the style that was used in the piece entitled, “Accident.” The author uses a lot of dialogue in the middle of the piece to convey the drama of the scene. The main difference between this piece and my piece is that it is written in a chronological form with a beginning, middle, and end. In my piece, chronology is not at all important because the reader does not know until the end whether what has happened is real or fantasy.

What works well in “Soaring” besides the quotes is the use of similes and metaphors to explain what the sensation of flying would be like. I got my inspiration for how important imagery is when I read the interesting pieces in journals like Brevity. For example, in John Calderazzo’s “Accident,” he uses the following powerful image when he describes a car exploding in an accident: “In my mind’s eye: WOOF! A pillow of orange heat blowing him back.”

Writing short non fiction pieces has allowed me to reflect on several ideas rather than focus on one long piece. The innovative piece has also given me a chance to be more creative in style, tone, and format. Although I typically prefer writing more straight forward narrative stories, writing experimental pieces like this is interesting, and I will definitely enjoy writing in this style in the future.

Summary of Findings

Our group chose to study Brevity, the online journal publishing short nonfiction essays of 500-750 words. As we began our study, we set out with a number of research questions that investigate not only the defining characteristics of the genre, but also the genre’s significance within the larger study as a whole.

First, we examined the exigence for short essays and their role in society. Short essays speak to today’s fast-paced lifestyle and desire for immediate satisfaction. Often, people lack the time to delve into a long novel or nonfiction piece. Brevity eliminates the problem of time constraints, and its existence within the medium of the Internet only works to further its widespread accessibility and convenience. The essays themselves work to fulfill a need in society, as well; often the essays are political in nature, allowing the authors to present current issues to the intended audience.

Next, we asked why these essays are written and why are they read. Much like the parent genre of creative nonfiction, Brevity essays are written from personal experience and satisfy the author’s need to tell their personal story or express certain views. The structure of the essays innately presents the possibility to create a story with resonating meaning. Brevity is read by people seeking the impact and familiarity of creative nonfiction without the need to set aside a great deal of time.

Our third research question addressed the nature of the intended audience. Brevity readers, for the most part, must be conscientious readers because of the lack of publicity that Brevity has. Readers who come to the site know what they are looking for and expect to read a work of literary depth.

In addition to our specific research questions, we examined the formal characteristics of the short essays in order to form the foundation for our study. Although Brevity pieces vary widely in subject matter and organization, common tropes and devices emerged. Imagery proved extremely important in these short essays; the author lacks the space for lengthy description present in ordinary creative nonfiction; telling the story quickly through concrete images is much more effective. Characters in the pieces lack the development of those in other genres and are only defined by status or one defining characteristic. Pacing also plays an important role, as authors have few words with which to build tension, so pacing in the form of varied sentence structure, fragments, or repetition is important in establishing movement in the story.

Although subject matter varies, all authors typically attempt to establish some universal truth, or at least an identifiable experience. Irony, dialogue, simile, and personification appear frequently and work to quickly establish the theme while telling the story in a literary fashion. The most important unifying factor present in these essays is the extended metaphor, which unifies the essay from start to finish and attributes to it a deeper message.

The style of the essays themselves varies between individual pieces. In our research, we found three main stylistic formats that the essays typically adhere to. The essay Oatmeal follows the literal format, which follows traditional narrative style. Many essays follow an abstract format, using abstract concepts and writing techniques. An example of this type of essay would include Quinto Sol, due to its use of displaced subject matter and poetic style of writing. A third style, the innovative form, consists of essays that show unique design and can include an abstract or stream-of-consciousness style. An example can of this can be found in the essay S_ _ T.

In relation to its parent genre, Brevity presents us with a sub-genre that adheres to a few of the generic qualities of its parent. These qualities include using only personal material, while taking upon many new formal qualities, such as reliance on imagery, pacing, and metaphor. Where traditional creative nonfiction often tells a story in its entirety, Brevity pieces almost always leave the reader with something to figure out. Thus, in relation to its parent genre, Brevity provides us with an example of a disembedded genre in how it has been removed from its parent genre, where it initially developed on paper, and has taken on a societal function of its own in the online realm.

Imitation Literal Example

The following is another example of a typical Brevity piece.



http://creativenonfiction.org/brevity/brev26hotcold/ryan_oatmeal.html

Imitation Literal Example

The following is an example of a typical Brevity piece.

http://creativenonfiction.org/brevity/brev28/calderazzo_accident.html

Imitation Abstract Example

Presley's piece is an example of abstract imitation because its composition is a deviation from the norm, composed of two sections and short sentences and fragments within both. The connection between subject matter and the way its presented is stronger in this than the other example "I am."

http://creativenonfiction.org/brevity/brev25/presley_coda.htm

Imitation Abstract Example

"I am" is an abstract imitation example because of the disconnect between subject matter and plot. Each vignette jumps around to different subjects, sometimes going off on a tangent and sometimes reverting to one previously mentioned. And the author makes no strong effort to connect them.

http://creativenonfiction.org/brevity/brev27/elhajj_iam.html

Innovation Example

This Brevity piece is innovative because both its format and writing pattern vary from the norm of short creative nonfiction. The essay is framed in a dialogue format but uses almost all non-sequitur fragments.

http://creativenonfiction.org/brevity/brev25/holm_st.htm

Innovation Example

In the following selection, the writing is not necessarily innovative as it follows the narrative style of creative nonfiction, but its format is innovative because it forces a memoir-length story into a short essay by framing the story into chapters.

http://creativenonfiction.org/brevity/brev27/groom_nana.html

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