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 Lois Hard Standing on the curb, I watch the procession as the world marches by with their flutes and suits made of crackling armor, drums beating to a tune that I can’t see, muted clowns riding indiscernible cars, floats waving their streamers for all to taste except for me…