Casey DW Jones
The creases in her face ran deep as irrigation ditches and her back was a twisted mess, but she could still pull off that long-legged strut that drove those small-town men wild, especially in her electric lime heels.
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Kayla Rutledge
On her twenty-fourth birthday, in a tiny loft on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, Rebekah Bedfield stole a hat.
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Gina Willner-Pardo
When she told him they were finished, he sighed deeply. “I will always love you. None of this has anything to do with me not loving you,” he said, as though he was the one who’d ended it.
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Emily Choate
Johanna drives past the fraying seams of brush where Millerton’s flat gray fields meet miles of dense woods. The latest driest-on-record spring has opened in kindling— more like the remnant of a tough season than the rebirth of anything much.
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Tomás Baiza
A spasm of guilt ripped through Aurelio sixty miles east of Ely, Nevada. He barely registered the whine of tires over the rumblestrip just before the truck left the highway at seventy miles per hour.
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Alia Georges
It wasn’t because we were on the boy side of the store. Mom didn’t care about that kind of thing. She just had that look on her face like she couldn’t believe she tossed out her cigarette just to come in here and look at this shit.
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