They say that there’s an old lady who lives at the top of Bolson Hill in a little wooden shack that everyone stays away from. All the kids at school say that she’s a witch or a ghoul, or

I was lying on a floral beach towel, reading Ursula Le Guin with my shades on. Every now and then I’d peer up from the book to watch Kaden splash in the water, flailing his arms. Mom said it was supposed to rain,

A black rosary cradles her palm and carefully fastens around her frail fingers. Every bead she gathers leads to the cross, grants resilience. The warmth of Abuelita’s hands secure mine. Her strap sandals, comfortable enough for bumpy, scattered streets. And my heels, short enough to last the way to the church. Humble neighbors dressed in grayscale clothing hunker down. “Sentimos mucho su pérdida.” La sala overfills but hushes from time

Rena wasn’t wrong when she said her left side was her best angle. She’s swan-like, swirling in her white, feathered dress. Hands on her heart, she sings of a “broken heart never in love.” Beautiful. “Cassie!” My headset erupts, “Are you there?”  I run behind the little bedroom on wheels, where my

Hooves slough off like stiff denim in the creek. I stretch one leg tight and long, feel skin drop noiselessly into the dark. Frail fingers of moonshine drag across the water’s surface and grip my flank. When I feel light enough, I start towards the shore. Newborn feet meet the bank, toes painted muddy and red. The wet grass licks them clean with each step up, up through brush and hill and mist to the Fresnel lens of my second-story window. It’s hard holding your breath with monster nostrils, but I’ve done this before. I slip between the Kia and the Subaru, thumb bleached bumper stickers, climb the porch