Fingerprints by Sheila Cooper

She imagined everyone could see them, the fingerprints they left behind. No special brushes or powder needed to reveal the damage that was done. She imagined they glared at you like a neon sign, “VA ANT,” flashing above a cheap motel. A hole in the center that no one...

My Sister by Meygan Cox

One time, my sister asked why people do not swim when it rains— her point being they are already wet. As much as I tried, I could not answer. In the years to come, she began to tower over me, a foot taller to be exact. Her face grew long, but not in a dreadful way....

Packing Away by Marianne Peel

That summer in Brooklyn the streets were hot to the toes, asphalt like fire on our feet. Uncle Mike sent my Isabella to the corner store to buy a pack of Camels, which would heat up this tin can of an apartment even more on this June day. Isabella could hardly unglue...