Get 20M+ Full-Text Papers For Less Than $1.50/day. Start a 14-Day Trial for You or Your Team.

Learn More →

Leaving the Kibbutz

Leaving the Kibbutz JOSHUA LEVY* I woke covered with sweat. My roommate was snoring in his bed; face turned toward the wall, shirtless, his yellow boxers ill fitting. It was still dark. The moon penetrated our window and drew chalk-white outlines around everything. Everything was me, him, a white wood table between our beds, an emaciated bag of potato chips on the floor, my guitar case, his silver box filled with hand-rolled cigarettes, and his collection of war posters taped to the walls. I jumped from my bed and crossed the room barefoot, careful not to step on some scorpion leaving his hideout for a bit of fresh air. I splashed cold water on my face, brushed my teeth, and, after checking that all my things were packed in my duffel bag by the door, proceeded to unpack a shirt and shorts and get dressed. Then, I walked to the center of the room and grabbed my guitar case and left. The village was still asleep. It was dry and hot. Quiet. A few shacks, yellow flowers, a table strewn with plastic cups, and an empty vodka bottle on its side were unevenly illuminated by security lights hung from tree limbs. I http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Literary Imagination Oxford University Press

Leaving the Kibbutz

Levy, Joshua
Literary Imagination , Volume 18 (1) – Mar 28, 2016
Download PDF
2 pages

Loading next page...
 
/lp/oxford-university-press/leaving-the-kibbutz-93I0Kca7Ue
Publisher
Oxford University Press
Copyright
The Author 2014. Published by Oxford University Press on behalf of the Association of Literary Scholars, Critics, and Writers. All rights reserved. For permissions please e-mail: journals.permissions@oup.com
ISSN
1523-9012
eISSN
1752-6566
DOI
10.1093/litimag/imu022
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

JOSHUA LEVY* I woke covered with sweat. My roommate was snoring in his bed; face turned toward the wall, shirtless, his yellow boxers ill fitting. It was still dark. The moon penetrated our window and drew chalk-white outlines around everything. Everything was me, him, a white wood table between our beds, an emaciated bag of potato chips on the floor, my guitar case, his silver box filled with hand-rolled cigarettes, and his collection of war posters taped to the walls. I jumped from my bed and crossed the room barefoot, careful not to step on some scorpion leaving his hideout for a bit of fresh air. I splashed cold water on my face, brushed my teeth, and, after checking that all my things were packed in my duffel bag by the door, proceeded to unpack a shirt and shorts and get dressed. Then, I walked to the center of the room and grabbed my guitar case and left. The village was still asleep. It was dry and hot. Quiet. A few shacks, yellow flowers, a table strewn with plastic cups, and an empty vodka bottle on its side were unevenly illuminated by security lights hung from tree limbs. I

Journal

Literary Imagination – Oxford University Press

Published: Mar 28, 2016

There are no references for this article.