ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Sara Greenwald's stories have been published in Pindeldyboz,
Comet, Moondance, Thirteenth Moon, , Stories, Bread
and Roses, and Janus Magazines. One
of her stories was nominated for publication in the HBJ Best New American
Voices anthology and another received an honorable mention in the 2000
New Millennium Writing Awards. A novel was nominated for the Bellwether
Prize 2004. Sara holds an MA in English Lit. from
http://www.bcsupernet.com/users/ascent/A%20Visit%20to%20Oldworld.htm
http://www.pindeldyboz.com/sgbestman.htm
When I started searching things about this author, I
didn’t find anything because I was searching by the nickname “Sara Peyton”,
instead of the real name, but, unsuccessfully I haven’t found more information
about Sara Peyton (more known as Sara Greenwald), maybe because she isn’t very
famous.
Apart from that, there is one person also called Sara
Peyton who has 25 years experience as a
staff and freelance reporter, and also an other called Sara Greenwald who is an
associate professor in the Department of Mathematics and a Women's
Studies core faculty member at Appalachian State University in the north
western mountains of North Carolina, and a winner of a 2005 MAA Alder Award
for distinguished teaching. That made things worst.
So I would like you to take into account that there is
nothing else available about this author on the internet.
ARTICLES FROM THE AUTHOR
The videocorder had the
wrong impression of me. That's what started my divorce. Well, no. Rewind the
video of life a tad, back past the altar to Fred and I
at the bachelor party. I gave him a mini-microwave cupholding
auto cell phone shaped like Marilyn Monroe. He gave me a videocorder
that recommends movies for you, using a linguistic-analysis algorithm to scan
online catalogs for keywords from titles you watch.
Forward to wedding one, the usual
near-symmetrical shot of myself and spouse and the overpaid busybody rhetorizing on the vows. Ring, ring, jabber, kiss. Fred at my elbow doing Best Man and the Maid of Honor in
near-fluorescent pink, her makeup, that is. Green dresses for the women's side,
black for the men. We wore tuxes. Oh, and Brutus the dog, who jumped in the
limo and bared his teeth, so we put a ribbon on his tail and he came to the
church and killed every rat in the basement while the ceremony went on. OK,
fast forward through the obligatory honeymoon stuff. Hundreds, no thousands, of
frames of the same motion repeated. Of course I was smiling when I got back to
the shop.
Inch the tape along -- there! Fred's wedding to
fluorescent pink. He's happier in this frame than I've ever seen him standing
up. His expression so bright it nearly burns out the tube. By Jesus, their
children will glow in the dark. Me in the tux on which Brutus had sprayed so
the rental guy, Brutus snarling, said give me ten bucks and you've got a suit.
Married life. Closeup of self at the tube, scanning this, surfing that. Nova, the Savage Planet, Jacques Cousteau undersea. Me and Fred watching pink-orange models of cholinesterase
inhibition. Spouses? At the
mall. How the godhell much can be left to buy?
Brutus developed a taste for mall goods after chewing up Marilyn. Stores have
all closed; chewed-up merchandise and lost customer base after all the parents
moved away, Brutus their excuse. The kids provoked him; he gets plenty of
squirrel and sparrow and steak without the complication of bassinettes. But the
parents raised a stink so we keep to the house: inhibited cholinesterase,
ancient Egyptians, architecture in
How do you convince a videocorder's algorithm you're
straight? The next menu was nothing but stuff that made Fred rush to cover the
screen. Me too. Both of us there
with our palms on the glass, reaching around each other to grab the remote.
Well, skip past that frame. You convince an algorithm by feeding it data. Me and Fred, with straight and narrow porn on the tube in the
background. The same stuff, only blurred, as the
honeymoon shots. Us drinking beer for the most part,
playing cards, reading books, bellyaching. See, our heads aren't even
turned to the screen. Because while the corder
is showing its stuff, we can't surf channels. What else, really
speaking, is there to do? Sometimes we turn on the radio and dance.
And then the Spousal Discovery shot. Caught in the act. Four feminine eyes bugging out at the
straight and narrow, Brutus devouring groceries unobserved. The
screen, the videocorder's report of recent selections. What kind of free
country have we got left where a divorce lawyer subpoenas your videocorder? And all of the rest, with
the papers, the rumors, the alimony. Brutus has
still got subpoena-server on his breath. Oh God to rewind again.
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