Dorothy Dandridge: A Biography by Donald Bogle
Review by Kathryn Lively
Never heard of Dorothy Dandridge? What a shame, especially considering that her friend and colleague Marilyn Monroe, whose own life and death were very similar to that of "Dottie D's", is revered today as some ethereal glamour icon. Indeed, I have even heard Dandridge referred to as the "black Marilyn", bringing to mind exceptional beauty that masked years of career disappointment and failed romances. Reading Donald Bogle's detailed biography, simply titled Dorothy Dandridge, I know that nickname is false. Dorothy was not the "black" anybody, she was Dorothy Dandridge : unique and forever beautiful.
by Xan Ostro
On the drive up here I thought how miserable this was going to be. I always enjoyed visiting Grandma's house, meeting my cousins, sitting around the dining room table, eating the family made dinner, sharing exaggerated stories about all the things that had happened to one another since the last time we met. This time it was different.
by Janine Donahue
When I was a child I had a favorite tree, a large oak that stood in the corner of our yard. I loved that tree - the boundary - the limit. At six years old, I wasn't allowed to stray further than that tree. I wasn't allowed to leave the yard. I loved that boundary, that proud oak, the tall graceful guardian, protecting me against the great unknown, guarding me against strangers who, according to my parents, were always waiting to take me places where no one would find me again.
by Bryan K. Brown
I guess people are like stereos: they vary in their dynamic range. Some catch the screaming highs and the bellowing lows, others are better suited to talk radio. Is this significant?
by Regina Phelps
Mrs. Lambert stood for a moment looking out across the frozen pond, the stinging wind bringing tears. There were no ducks to catch the bread now, no summer sounds. Images of bygone times and bygone people visited her and she could almost see the old ones on the ice, waiting, their backs straight as they sat wrapped in a soft leather shawl in readiness for the great Alaskan bear to come and get them.
When They Take Yours Breasts Away
by Charles R. Phillips
You manage to tee up, even as streamers of fire lick at your body. The key, you realize, is in ignoring the pain. And the fear. If you let it control you, you'll never take the first swing. Taking a deep breath, you draw the club back, the tearing at tender flesh almost unendurable, but not quite, not quite. You pause at the top, then the club flashes down of its own accord, seeking the ball from long practice without conscious thought.
From the Kitchen Window
by Phoebe Wray
Yes. The flowers were moving, in a circular pattern. Curious. She took a quiet step in the direction of the disturbance and it stopped. Anna waited. She slowly sipped her coffee, watching. There! She took another step then stopped abruptly. Whatever it was, it was moving towards her.
by Donna Lee
She used to be stunning. She revels in this fact. Her father called her 'Princess'. She stands naked in front of the mirror, looks in and squints -searching for the shadow of her former self. Her age-battered image only stares back. The bulbous sack of her right hip is now on the left. Put the two sides together and her body would be symmetrical.
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