On the Morning Dance Floor by Alex Juffer
Jakey, face pressed to the window and eyes cupped into makeshift binoculars, could see Mrs. Claddagh sitting perched on her couch, speaking to herself.
Jakey, face pressed to the window and eyes cupped into makeshift binoculars, could see Mrs. Claddagh sitting perched on her couch, speaking to herself.
She was dressed as a belly dancer—all fake-silver coins and gauzy material—cheesy for sure, especially given her Afghani heritage, but she had the outfit already so what the hell?
While I held our daughter’s bleeding index finger high over the kitchen sink, I knew that somewhere on the highway, you were driving to work, listening for word of catastrophes on NPR or unironically singing the words of an 80’s song made-over by a country boy.
Thank you to everyone who submitted works. As usual it was incredibly hard to make our selections due to the stellar quality of the writings you shared with us.
“You can’t have a dog while you still suck your thumb,” Ma debated, after the last brand of chili-flavored nail polish failed to break Amy’s habit but trained her to forever love spicy food.