by G. K. Wuori
My first meaningful crime was on a Christmas Day. It was long ago, and clever tricks of mind and word have replaced accuracy in the telling. As I’ve told my kids, you can go to an old Sears catalog to see how people shopped in a given time, but you can’t order from it. My kids have often wished I’d tell them less.
by Rebecca McClanahan
Once inside, we don't lack for company
Everyone we ever failed is there
by Philip St. Clair
A young boy is in the bed of a small gray Nissan Pickup on 101 to Ventura:
he has wrapped himself up in a blanket;
he lies on a thin mattress and looks up at the sky; it is dusk, and the washes
of pale pink and pale mauve
that color all of Southern California have deepened to pastel.
by Jon Loomis
Last of the warm nights.
Last of the girls arm in arm.
Nobody’s thinking of winter—
not even the gaunt men watching
from windows, lucent, consumed.
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