by Gil Hoy On those windswept weekday mornings, asphalt driveway crusted with snow, my father would get up early, put on his secondhand boots and an old coat, and exit through our front door into the blue hour to get the motor running. That fifteen-year-old station wagon would stall if…
by Amy Fontenot Dear Santa, Christmas is almost here! Daddy says I love Christmas more than anyone because it is my birthday too. I will be seven this year. I promise I have been good all year. I help Mommy take care of Baby Benji. He cries and poops, but…
By Amy Fontenot Mother checked her lipstick in the rear-view mirror as we pulled to a stop at the red light. We’ve driven hours to Atlanta so that we wouldn’t run into my mother’s social circle. My stomach churned again, either from the nerves or the hormones. Mother glanced with contempt at my small…