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Hotel Island

Hotel Island Young lungs strain against the stricture of the life jacket. Ahead my father's shoulders bob like a long-tailed duck riding, then diving into a ripple. He is young. Between breaths, we compare what we may find on the island. My sister wants to find a hoopskirt a real Victorian lady wore to a ball. She is a romantic. I want to find broken wineglasses, because I've never seen wine or a glass designed to hold it. Colleen wants to find a body. The shell covering the beach is dangerous as broken plates. Lake water dries sticky on our skin. Ahead, my father hops, yelping like a coyote, at pretend discoveries. We believe he sees the ghosts of vacationers. He hoists an ochre shell shaped like a pistol's grip. We never found what we imagined we would. The way back is always shorter because anticipation takes hope. Between strokes his arms reach ferris wheel high. He says TVA flooded the valley below our scissor-kicking feet. Cows ran for high ground; farmers lugged suitcases of try-hard and tough luck. The hotel's fine china a parable for the derelict and dreamful. rAChEl morgAn http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Hotel Island

Appalachian Review , Volume 42 (2) – Jul 11, 2014

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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

Young lungs strain against the stricture of the life jacket. Ahead my father's shoulders bob like a long-tailed duck riding, then diving into a ripple. He is young. Between breaths, we compare what we may find on the island. My sister wants to find a hoopskirt a real Victorian lady wore to a ball. She is a romantic. I want to find broken wineglasses, because I've never seen wine or a glass designed to hold it. Colleen wants to find a body. The shell covering the beach is dangerous as broken plates. Lake water dries sticky on our skin. Ahead, my father hops, yelping like a coyote, at pretend discoveries. We believe he sees the ghosts of vacationers. He hoists an ochre shell shaped like a pistol's grip. We never found what we imagined we would. The way back is always shorter because anticipation takes hope. Between strokes his arms reach ferris wheel high. He says TVA flooded the valley below our scissor-kicking feet. Cows ran for high ground; farmers lugged suitcases of try-hard and tough luck. The hotel's fine china a parable for the derelict and dreamful. rAChEl morgAn

Journal

Appalachian ReviewUniversity of North Carolina Press

Published: Jul 11, 2014

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