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 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…