In December winter was new. We hadn't yet faced January's mercury hovering mercilessly near zero, February's dark, brutal nights closing in forever, or the gray slush of March slopping at roadsides.

Mommy says now that I'm eight years old I get to be queen all day. So early this morning, she put my queen costume from Halloween at the foot of my bed. I was so excited. I got out of my jammies and into that dress quick as a greyhound dog.

My story, “Off you go, little ones,” won third place!

And then with a bam-boom-schram-a-flam, the grapnel swapfnicker sort of thing rose up from the leaves in the creek bed, and he tore off his head, which wasn't his head at all, but a mask

A memory of standing in front of a camera, smiling wide as a sunset, no worries about how I looked.