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787c113
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People always fear what they don't understand, Evangeline. History proves that.
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history
libba-bray
the-diviners
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Libba Bray |
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cee770f
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Clothing left on the bed unfolded. Books stained with coffee spots. Tabs not paid until the last possible second. Boys kissed and then forgotten in a week's time.
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the-diviners
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Libba Bray |
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0d4c2b8
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On the Bowery, in the ornate carcass of a formerly grand vaudeville theater, a dance marathon limps along. The contestants, young girls and their fellas, hold one another up, determined to make their mark, to bite back at the dreams sold to them in newspaper advertisements and on the radio. They have sores on their feet but stars in their eyes.
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libba-bray
new-york
the-diviners
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Libba Bray |
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840dc06
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Careful there, Poet. I might start to believe you.
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poet
the-diviners
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Libba Bray |
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e4a65d2
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The wind swoops over the tenements on Orchard Street, where some of those starry-eyed dreams have died and yet other dreams are being born into squalor and poverty, an uphill climb. It gives a slap to the laundry stretched on lines between tenements, over dirty, broken streets where, even at this hour, hungry children scour the bins for food. The wind has existed forever. It has seen much in this country of dreams and soap ads, old horrors and bloodshed. It has played mute witness to its burning witches, and has walked along a Trail of Tears; it has seen the slave ships release their human cargo, blinking and afraid, into the ports, their only possession a grief they can never lose.
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libba-bray
new-york
the-diviners
young-adult
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Libba Bray |