Laying on the hood of her old Volvo, we scanned the sky, looking for the meteor shower the weatherman had promised—“he must know, he’s a meteorologist”—our conversation continually broken by exclamations of “there’s one."
By Gary Moshimer Dad had his Post-it notes in the funeral home. He liked the rainbow colors. He refused to accept her death, this child of his. He stuck them on as though she were sleeping. No one stopped him.
By David Galef Seventeen women from ages twenty to fifty-seven wore the same red dress to the Westbury Country Club dance. Kelsey got fired by the boss who canned her sister Stacey, ten years and two states apart.