Word: exception
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...children with me were crying. I was more frightened than before because I thought they were going to throw me into the fire. The rebels were laughing and making jokes, except for the man who had picked us out. His face was bad, so dark it was blue--you couldn't see any sign of laughter in it. He cut us with the ax one by one. I was number five. The adults were begging, and the children were crying. They put my hands on the ground and cut them off quickly, the left first. I didn't feel anything...
...want to go back to school. I haven't been back since this happened. How can I write? I can't do anything except eat and drink water from a cup. Sometimes I follow my father into the forest when he cuts wood to sell in the truck park. I used to wash my clothes and cook. But now I can't do those things. I play with my younger sisters, chasing them and wrestling. I still do that...
...debate raises an even more basic question: Why would we want to enhance memory in the first place? We may imagine that it would make us happier, except that we all know smart, sad people; or richer, except that there are wildly successful people who can't remember their phone number. Perhaps it would help us get better grades, land a better job, but it might also take us down a road we'd prefer not to travel. "You might say yes, it would be wonderful if we could all have better memories," muses Stanford University neuropsychiatrist Dr. Robert Malenka...
Oklahoma junior high school science teacher Dennis Fritz never thought he would be convicted of raping and murdering his neighbor, 21-year-old Debra Sue Carter. He had no criminal record, except for driving offenses, and the case against him was paper thin--flimsy circumstantial evidence and the dubious testimony of a jailhouse snitch who claimed Fritz confessed while awaiting trial. Was that really all it took to send a man away for life? "When the jury came back with a guilty verdict, I almost went into shock," says Fritz...
...standing in front of Chris Rock's home: a carriage house in Brooklyn, ivy hanging from the front, a quiet street except for a kid a block or two away blasting Bob Marley's Is This Love from the open windows of his van. Malaak, Rock's wife, answers the door, and a rat-size terrier explodes out, yapping. "That's Essence," says Malaak. Named after Essence, the magazine? "Named after the [1993] Essence Awards, where Chris and I first met," she corrects...