By Jennifer Handley
Concrete steps rise from pebbly cracked sidewalks, but go, absurdly, nowhere. Into the boards of a fence, or the sunless dirt beneath a low tree limb.
By Dzvinia Orlowsky
Late August, a cat rolling in mown grass flips to its back again, then to its feet, half sun-drunk, half whiplash tail. I am loved. Not. Am.
By M.J. Iuppa
Sally was the twin who took chances. A cherry-lipped brunette with a Louise Brook’s bob, she turned heads in traffic.