From Issue 12: Sunk

JoeAnn Hart   On Monday, Brad came home from work humming to himself, but at the path to his door, the hum drained to silence. The sun was low and weak, the sky thinly washed in purple, making the picture window mirror-dark. He tilted his head, trying to align his house with his mind. Something had changed, but he could not say what. “Must be the light,” he decided, then went inside to his wife, Edna, and his small child, Oliver, and he forgot all about it. But on Tuesday night the same, if not more so. “Something is definitely…

This content is for Subscriber members only.
Log In Register