To Their Leaves / by Chase Boisjolie

At three-thirty in the afternoon, the sun had attained such a point in the sky that it was now shining with absolute brutality into Isaac Jacob’s twelfth floor apartment. The mercilessly bright light revealed a room that was, in a manner of speaking, a near perfect reflection of its occupant. Strewn about the wood floor …

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The Bitter Oranges of Jacob Breslin / by Amber Gallant

We thought maybe Papa had gotten the idea from a book. For months he spoke of nothing but the wine-hearted solitude of the place, quoting Robinson Jeffers, while I racked my thoughts trying to remember which of my library books I’d left on the kitchen table at home, what he might have riffled through while …

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