by Sarah Freligh Kelly Sikkema Weeks after the water rose, objects floated up from the drowned city below us: A baby shoe, a Starbucks mug, a red plaid dog collar tufted with wet fur. * Once there were eleven of us, once there were fish and berries. The water rose and rose. We used to see boats in the distance. Now we crowd together, ration what we eat. We dream of food hot from the oven, but wake to a cold smear of sun. * Books float up, beach themselves as if delivered: a m

by Sarah Freligh Edgar Chaparro Both she and Janie sign contracts, but Janie chickens out at the last minute, claiming summer school and a boyfriend, so in the end she takes the bus up there alone, her stuff spread across two seats. Her mother’s full of stories about girls alone on buses, the trouble they get into with men who get funny with them and get off at the next stop, how real life is exactly like those confession magazines she used to read, where the women trudge an