by Millie Sullivan That Which is Sweet Delia sat on the velvet settee, her back straight and her knees pressed together. The air was thick with the scent of citrus, undercut by cinnamon and a whisper of clove. Bowls of oranges—plump, dimpled—sat artfully arranged on the small coffee table before…
by Diane Webster I am a 69-year-old woman who sleeps on Garfield sheets. I am a 69-year-old woman who hangs a poster of a crabby cat that states, “I AM smiling!” I am a 69-year-old woman who has a samurai sword mounted above her bed and who no longer has to sleep with a kitchen knife resting on her night…
by Diane Webster Day by day my pills leave their tiny doors open attesting to the fact that I swallowed them. Week after week I fill the compartments with their allotted pills and snap the doors shut. Only to start Sunday through Saturday time after time, faster than a week used to last.