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 Maria DeSantis She’s not that clever! he growled. No female ever overtook him! He was orange with power His pompadour mane purposely dredged forward hiding a lot of flakes His scorn groomed away facts and pawed a lot of fiction Dangerously playing cat-and-mouse Like an only child snatching for…