Fall 2007 • Vol. XXIX No. 4 Fiction |

Babka

Before I was here, I was a little girl of the usual height and weight. I knew the hard spray of the hydrants on my bare back, my shoulders hunched in delicious shivers, the feeling of a wet sunsuit chafing between my chubby thighs, the squint of water and sunlight in my eyes. Every day I turned a metal key, clamped skates to my buckle shoes, and scraped around on the sidewalk in front of my stoop. I bounced a ball, putting my knee over it ten times before I missed. An ordinary child, Babka, named for a delicious sweet cake—that was me. In those outdoor days, I was always the first one to hear the ting-a-ling of the Mr. Frosty truck, or the hollering of Bennie Kreczewski, selling paper cones of peanuts and sugared almonds, or the Italian ices man. I could run then, and I did, as fast as my legs would go, racing ahead of the other screaming children, the nickel or dime my mama had given me clutched in my outstretched hand. Every summer morning, my mother would hand me this precio

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Mormons in Heat

By Don Waters

Before I was here, I was a little girl of the usual height and weight. I knew the hard spray of the hydrants on my bare back, my shoulders hunched […]

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