By Mikki Aronoff

“First a whoosh like a runaway locomotive. Silver minnows fell from the sky. Windows feathered, fell onto shifting sidewalks. Buildings tumbled, entombing the townspeople.”

By Mikki Aronoff

She cuts the engine and swings down from the cab like a spider monkey flying through rainforest. She thrives on heights, but she’s running out of diesel and there’s that hot date with a trapezist seven exits away.

By Mikki Aronoff

The wind blew and the door splintered. She squeezed you out fresh as a lemon, just in time for Jeopardy. The only time they took your picture, it was a cold day in December.

By Mikki Aronoff

At dusk on the last day of second grade, we stopped doing wheelies in the empty lot down the street to watch Mathilde, rigid on the sidewalk as her mother shoved a suitcase into the trunk of someone’s car. Her mother never turned around. Never waved goodbye.