by Gabriella Herkert

Marty wore whorehouse red to the funeral. The cold December wind sliced at her but she refused to take refuge behind crossed arms or slumped shoulders. The muddy ground sucked voraciously at her three-inch high heels but she walked erect, striding toward the waiting limousine. The dark mustached chauffeur offered a helping hand and a leering glance as she slid onto the rear-facing leather jump seat. Marty rolled her eyes. That’s for you, Gram, wherever you are. Annabelle and Louise sat next to each other on the back seat, matching crows with scowling faces.
(read on…)

by Nan Wheeler

My mother used to tell the story of when I was a toddler and took a fall from the top of the stairs. We lived in a housing project in an apartment with concrete floors and two levels. Momma said it was a miracle how, midway down the stairs, I managed to grab hold of the rail and hang on, screaming, till she came to save me.

Two truths occur to me in retrospect; I was destined to be a survivor, and that was the last time my mother ever attempted to rescue me. (read on…)