I took the form from the gnarled hand. Behind the receptionist’s thick glasses piercing jade eyes examined me. “Fill this out and your request will be considered.”
Only two other applicants sat in cracked vinyl chairs. The mint paint was chipped and stained. A layer of dust covered most surfaces. I took a seat
The rain pours down over my shoulders. I crouch next to the tree we used to climb, sobbing.
“It’s the circle of life, Maya.” I startle as Mama comes up behind me. “You have to let him go.”
I rest my palm against the wet grass. “Why?”
“The way of life,” Mama repeats.
“I can’t believe you’re making me do this,” Willow grumbled, blowing a strand of brown hair out of her face. She trudged through the shallow, mucky water. Only Henry would think it was a good idea to spend their weekend stomping around a mosquito-infested swamp searching for something that didn’t exist.
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Your murderer wears a green coat.
High collar, turned up. His unwavering eyes lock with yours from across the bar as he discreetly pays the door fee and enters like a kryptonite bullet nobody notices but you. His shadowy fedora is olive-tinted, matching every lime-tinsel and kelly-painted shade in this sweaty watering hole.
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Had I recognized the emerald droplets for what they were, perhaps I wouldn’t have followed them.
You’d woken me, earlier than usual. Restless, kicking, and hungry for both of us. I’d grazed on a bowl of muesli as I sipped my mint tea, watching the dust bunnies dance in the bright January
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She’s not coming, says the Wolf. It prowls outside my cottage door, snuffling.
I cower into my blankets. How big is it today? Large enough to blow down the door and swallow me whole in an instant?
I can’t let it in.
It’s Friday, the Wolf continues. She never comes on Fridays.
He is coughing again.
My sari sweeps behind me as I climb the steps, medicine bottle in hand. Two teaspoons if I remember correctly.
The door to my husband’s room is open. He is sprawled in bed, pillow over his face, as if smothering himself
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When the big guy said he’d give justice to the fatherless, I’m pretty sure this isn’t what he was talking about. I sighed and checked the clock. 7:32 a.m. I had been sitting idle for half an hour, and the pale, cold sunlight was creeping through the side windows.
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Life’s a marathon, and Derek Finley beat me to the finish line. His home health aide, Ms. Baxter, let me in. “He passed just as the clock struck noon,” she told me, lowering the sheet so I could see for myself.
Inwardly, I cursed. I’d heard the grandfather clock’s chimes while climbing the
Go see a show, Lindsey. Get out of the house for one evening.
My neighbors like to give advice—some of it better than others.
How can I see a musical without Amaliah? That’s like betraying her memory. My fingers clench around Tico’s leash, and he looks up
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I may not remember how I got here, but I’ve sworn revenge on the mage who trapped me under this globe. The glass shines darkly, reflecting back my image—a cute porcelain ballerina, pirouetting in a yellow tutu on a turning platform, encased in darkness and the oppressive Music that speaks without words.
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It was a dark, moonless night, and there was nowhere else to go. No bar in town stayed open this late. And for the life of him, he couldn’t remember where he had parked his car. He eyed a broad icy park bench by the sidewalk. It looked infinitely more attractive than his
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