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	<title>Fictionique</title>
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	<link>http://fictionique.com</link>
	<description>The world in our own words.</description>
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		<title>Big Head and the Iroquois</title>
		<link>http://fictionique.com/?p=14222</link>
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		<pubDate>Sat, 19 May 2012 00:50:43 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Lee Allen Hill</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Arts and Letters]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[History]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[The Gallery]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[1779, Central New York Colony It is barely false dawn, and the smoky fog settles thicker upon the still water.  I paddle silently, confidently, using only my instincts and the lapping of the water on the shoreline to keep from running aground.  I am at home on The Spirit’s Handprint.  This is my world. The edging light now enables me to see tree tops, and I know I have steered my tiny vessel well. There is not a tree in these vast forests I don’t recognize and have not slept beneath.  Just as there is not a single drop of water in this land of lakes I have not criss-crossed many times over. To the red people who try to hang on to these ancestral lands I am known by many names.  None of them flattering. None of them spoken aloud.  To the white settlers who fight for land like pups fight for a teat, I am called Big Head, or just as often, Hump.  These names are accurate, and I have come to accept my lot.   I have no people.  I am a thing apart, a hideous mistake of nature.  My only tribe is the forest, my clansmen these [...]]]></description>
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		<title>There They Go</title>
		<link>http://fictionique.com/?p=14210</link>
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		<pubDate>Fri, 18 May 2012 01:59:05 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Steve Lewis</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Arts and Letters]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[The Gallery]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[There go the Stanhopes. Of course. We knew they wouldn’t last up here. Another year or two and, mark my word, it will be the Catenas heading out—two skinny parents, three fat kids, and one yippy dog I’d like to chase into the muddy river. They don’t really mix much with the locals, so I don’t actually know their name. But there’s a big Ray Catena logo on the back of their Lexus GX, so that’s what Marcie and Ted would call them. The Catenas. Then there’s the Williams&#8217;. I do know their names, but at this point it really doesn’t matter, does it? Marcie used to refer to them as that “childless couple across the way,” an enduring sadness washing over her green eyes. Well, at least they smile when I meander over, lift a leg and claim another fence post as my own. My best guess: they have a matching pair of snarky windowsill cats back in Queens. The Williams&#8217; bought the Siercks’ brick cape a few summers ago; since then, they show up here once or twice a month in a Zip Car, change into their overalls and spend all weekend mowing, weeding the vegetable garden, watering, [...]]]></description>
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		<title>Wishbone Creek</title>
		<link>http://fictionique.com/?p=14181</link>
		<comments>http://fictionique.com/?p=14181#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 17 May 2012 14:47:20 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Tom Nolan</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Arts and Letters]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[The Gallery]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[Near noon, Jonas noticed a trail of smoke over a short rise to his right and turned his mules onto the rutted path leading toward it. When he crested the hill, the stone chimney that was its source caught his eye.  The craftsmanship spoke of a man skilled in building, as did the small cabin it sprang from.  Jonas observed that the yard sported a well-tended garden, while a rough-sawn rail fence enclosed a corral that ended at the beginnings of a barn.  It had been framed and roofed, but the sides lay open to the weather.  The jersey cow inside the corral raised her head at his approach, then resumed munching from a small haystack. As he hauled the mules to a stop, movement caught his eye, the curtain on the front window, bony crooked fingers letting it drop.  He dismounted, tethered the team to the fence rail, patted both on their well-muscled necks and made for the door.  Before he reached the front step it opened and a woman stepped out.  Jonas stopped and doffed his sweat-stained hat, worrying the brim in both hands.  In the seconds before either spoke, he took her measure.  Older than his twenty-six [...]]]></description>
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		<title>Jump!</title>
		<link>http://fictionique.com/?p=14170</link>
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		<pubDate>Thu, 17 May 2012 14:29:40 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>LC Neal</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Arts and Letters]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Sidenotes]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[Anybody out there writing a book, or a serial, or anything longer than short, raise your hand. If we were actually in a room together, I suspect I wouldn’t be able to see the humans for the palms. And good for all of us, because you haven’t lived, lost your sanity or cursed the gods with any real feeling until you’ve tried writing a full-length something, fiction or otherwise, and survived the experience. I read a lot &#8211; but not just the wonderful things that come to me from the contributors here, of course. I read a ton of fiction and bio and history and a lot about writing, and editing, and publishing. I’m also lucky enough to have collected some friends that are pros at some of that stuff, and I learn from them also. But there’s something no one can seem to teach me. Detachment. I am not one of the fortunate few who can achieve any sort of detachment from a story. They seize me like a drowning child, one that matures as I tow it to shore, until the weight of it as an adult threatens to sink us both. I stand gasping with my story [...]]]></description>
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