Tapped by Kim Magowan
A week before Ruth’s daughter heads to college, she crawls into Ruth’s bed in the middle of the night. Shivering, Hannah describes her nightmare.
A week before Ruth’s daughter heads to college, she crawls into Ruth’s bed in the middle of the night. Shivering, Hannah describes her nightmare.
Behind the picture window on Twelfth and Grand, the one you can see from the street if you walk on the south side of the sidewalk and look up to the second floor, lives a ten-pound longhaired calico that spends her days looking out at the passing cars.
It’s my week with Madison. My first week, in fact, since things have been settled. She’s been gaining weight at her mother’s, and, I believe, has stopped speaking proper sentences.
Choking smoke, gagging fear. The fire wall sailed down the hill as the kids, wedges among hurried belongings, cried, Arthur, Arthur.
I awoke in écarté. My left arm curved around the pillow and up to the headboard and my right foot arched toward tightly pointed toes.