by Jim Tilley We are used to white birches in the forest growing straight and tall, but I passed by one in a yard, bent and twisted, branches curled downward to the ground before rising again, as if it had suffered too many ice storms and never recovered. Beside it, a lush sugar maple grown taller, dominating the…
By Jane Finlayson “Arils.” “Arils?” Deb stopped digging the flesh from the out-of-season pomegranate imported from god-knows-where and held up sticky hands in surrender. The juice dripped and wound around her wrists like a henna tattoo. She squinted up at Doug sitting on the porch. “That’s what they’re called.” He…
by Jane Finlayson Nicky peels the skin off the chicken in one slick move, like she’s undressing some squirmy little kid before it makes a getaway. “Stay put, you twisted bag of bones,” she hisses, holding the bird upright and slapping onion halves and rosemary into the cavity before wrestling…