Literary LEO 2025: Short Fiction Winners

Short Fiction First Place Winner Comida By Precious Perez It was Friday, September 10, when I boarded a plane that landed in New York City’s La Guardia airport. I was coming in for an award show that was taking place the following evening, and had coordinated my short stay with my Titi Lisa. My anxiety eased as I slid into the back seat of the Uber that would take me to the Bronx. A smile played across my lips under my pink mask as I settled in, knowing that I’d be home soon. “Hi mami!” My eighty-seven-year-old great Grandma Carmen was waiting for me outside the apartment building, her ever-present smile evident in her warm weathered voice punctuated by that broken english accent I knew so well. She placed my hand on her shoulder, her short, delicate frame slowly maneuvering us both through the doors and into the elevator along with my small pink suitcase. “Dios te bendiga. How yu doin, Puly?" Her questions were etched with curiosity and joy, catching up with me as she got me settled in for a nap on titi’s bed. I could do nothing but beam, the spanish version of everything I said to Grandma Carmen in English, lingering on the tip of my tongue. I’ve always spoken to her in English, so I’ve always felt too shy to change that, but Grandma didn’t mind. Lying in the comfort of Titi Lisa’s bed, I relaxed into nostalgia. The sounds of the bustling streets below, everything from Bad Bunny to Raulin Rodriguez blaring from car speakers and echoing up to the open windows, Grandma’s voice ringing through the house while she cleaned and clambered around the kitchen. I felt like I was small again, being taken care of and watched over by my great grandma the way I had been on trips to New York with my mom when I was a little girl. Except today, I was newly married and twenty-four. I fell asleep that afternoon, soothed by warmth and love after being exhausted from early morning anxiety. When I awoke, the distinctive blend of sofrito, adobo, and sazon filled my nostrils. As I listened, I could hear rice and beans being turned on the stove, simmering under the lid of the pot as they cooked to perfection. I heard the clang of pots and pans, the running of the faucet. I thought about how grandma’s hands, even with arthritis making them shaky and pained, still had the love and strength to make dinner and ensure that I ate a heaping plate complemented by a cool bottle of water. The rice and beans, steaming on the paper plate next to tender and flavorful chicken filled my stomach the way her love filled my heart. As I sat there, smiling and reveling in the nostalgia of the moment, I realized that the food staples in front of me were the same, but each person had a way of sprinkling in their touch so that I could tell who made it. Just like Grandma Carmen, her rice was hardy and yet flavorful and smooth, the caldito melding in perfect harmony with the tender chicken that fell off the bone as I lifted it. I thought about how strong grandma is, having moved here to New York City from Puerto Rico, being the rock for not only her daughter, but for her granddaughters who call her mom. I thought about how much heart she has, her endless smiles, lively laughter, and love for us all. I thought about Titi Lisa’s rice and beans, so fresh and healthy, vegetables mixing in for good measure. In my view, they represent the way she is strong and solid, with so much depth, passion, and knowledge to share. I thought about my Grandma Janet’s rice and beans, the olives sprinkled throughout emulating her iron will, her love and tenderness fueled by her fire. I thought about my Titi Norma’s rice and beans, so rich with the story of growth, unity, and joy with every bite. I thought about Titi Flora’s rice and beans, so warm and delectable the way she is both strong and tender. I thought about my godmother who I call nina’s rice, usually complemented by homemade ribs the way her love is bolstered by her dedication and warm hugs. I thought about my mom’s rice and beans, so heavenly that one bite leaves me ravenous yet needing to savor every grain, and I miss it after only a week of officially moving away. Mom’s rice is just like the way my mom’s love, strength, independence, and support are constant, deep, unmistakable, and undeniable. I thought about all the rice and beans I’ve eaten so masterfully made by every powerful woman in my family, and how they were all familiar and incredible, yet, I could always tell whose hands had sprinkled their love into every last bit. I realized then, in the midst of my reverie that food is so much more than survival or nutrients. Comida es cultura, amor, y familia. I can’t wait for the day when I get to fill my family’s bellies and hearts with the same love and strength that filled me. I know that no matter how hard I try, it will never taste quite like my mom’s. That’s okay, though, because it will taste like mine.

Short Fiction Second Place Winner Roadkill By Calvin Bright Benny sat pompous as a king on the cherry velvet truck bench—threadbare, with the springs showing through. He was a scrappy blue heeler type, with a bloodline so muddled that Rackshack would say he was part deer. The lady had told him that Benny was as “Santa Fe a dog as they come,” which is what they tell you when they hand you a mutt in that city where every damn dog has at least one blue eye and a coat that looks as if it was on the wrong side of the street when a truck hit a mud puddle. Rackshack had picked Benny up that time he drove across the desert just to prove a point. And Benny had the same look as Rackshack when the deer spoke. It had been a routine day. Rackshack woke up early to “catch the morning rush,” which is what he called it when his answering machine was full after folks had spent all night smashing into any kind of unsuspecting animal. Mostly, the types who called were mothers taking their children to the bus at first light, just to expose them to a carnage fit only for the highest of pagan gods. For Rackshack, it was an unmemorable morning. Gas station coffee, the radio, and Benny—that was all Rackshack needed to run his Roadkill Pick-up Service. It had started in high school when Rackshack decided he had graduated from being the bait shop boy who could pick out the best worms to a sixteen-year-old with a truck who wanted to make some real money. Turns out, he had been onto something, because his half- brained idea proved to be a highly lucrative affair. It seemed folks were willing to pay a premium for roadkill to be picked up off their streets rather than wait a week or two for the county to get to it. After all, there were plenty of critter collisions in Eastern Kentucky, where the tag limit on deer was eleven and country roads were a way of life. And so, Rackshack had stuck with it all these years. That’s why it was a big deal when the deer spoke. Rackshack could say he had finally seen something new. “Ten thousand years it has been, and in one day, no more! You have had your chance to correct your course, and annihilation is due. But if you heed my warning and go on my quest, you may save your kind from utter damnation. You need only say ‘yes.’” It was a bit melodramatic, but it really packed a punch coming out of the mouth of a ten-pointer. Rackshack and Benny met each other's eyes, wondering if the other had heard it too. Slowly, Rackshack began to think on what the deer had said. Only the rasping of geese could be heard as they stared into the back of the truck, where lay the greatest phenomenon ever witnessed by unbelieving man. Rackshack, thinking hard on what to do, slowly closed the tailgate, paused, whistled at Benny, got back into the truck— and the deer was never thought about again.

Short Fiction Third Place Winner Men Are Bad at Compliments By Daniel In the Chauffers’ Rest glade of Cherokee Park, a man stands alone. The man’s name is Scott. He’s an average-looking 34-year-old, dressed in a way that would be appropriate for a backyard Sunday barbeque. A second man emerges from the woods, Ryan. “You should wear a suit more often. You look sharp in a suit,” Scott says. “Thanks,” replies Ryan. They stand in silence. Ryan, rigidly pivoting from his ankles, slowly shifts his body weight from left to right and then back to left. Scott looks up at an indistinct spot in the sky and then another indistinct spot in the sky. “I got your letter,” Ryan blurts out. “Well, obviously,” Scott says snarkily. “I followed the instructions exactly. ‘Be at this latitude and longitude, on May 6, 2017, at 2:45 p.m. in order to receive a compliment.’ It felt like an occasion, so I wore a suit. Anyway, here I am,” Ryan explains gleefully. Scott scuffs the ground with his shoe. Ryan shifts his lips, like he’s warming up for a monologue he won’t deliver. “Can I ask you a question?” asks Ryan. “Sure,” replies Scott. “What if I hadn’t worn this suit?” Scott furrows his brow. “What do you mean?” “What compliment would you have given me if I hadn’t worn this suit?” “That’s irrelevant,” Scott snubs. Ryan persists. “It’s just that, as you know, I don’t wear suits much, so you probably didn’t expect me to show up in one. You must have had something else prepared.” “I never prepare compliments. I come with an open and honest intention to compliment extemporaneously and with purity of heart. What if I planned to compliment your hair, but without me knowing, you had gotten a horrible haircut?” Scott clarifies, arm gesticulating for emphasis. “Okay, sure, sure. But let’s—just for fun—presuppose I hadn’t worn a suit. Like, a divergent, parallel universe where that reality happens instead of this one. What compliment would you give me in that world?” “We can’t know that,” Scott quickly concludes. Ryan sighs. “I don’t think it’s a stretch to imagine, really. Knowing yourself, knowing me, knowing your process for complimenting—If you paused and thought about it for a second, I’m sure it would come right to you.” Scott’s posture becomes stiff and tall. “There are three factors required for a good compliment: One, authenticity. Two, accuracy. Three, rarity. Creating more compliments could lead to hyperinflation and ultimately a recession. A collapse of the compliment economy would be catastrophic for self-esteem. We live in a civilized society, and I can’t be responsible for that. I won’t be responsible for that,” “I understand. I really do,” Ryan says, voice tinged with desperation. “But it’s just us here. I won’t tell anyone else. I’m not really even asking for another compliment, per se, in the sense that I won’t absorb it. I just want to know what it would have been, as a thought exercise. It’s a way to catalog and better understand my own self-improvement process. I assure you, no harm will be done,” “I was very precise in my letter’s verbiage: ‘to receive a compliment.’ I didn’t, for example, write ‘to be complimented’ or ‘compliments.’ I certainly didn’t use any adverbs like ‘showered,’ or ‘bathed.’ A compliment. Singular. And it has been given. As far as I’m concerned, our business here is concluded.” Scott says harshly. Both men are visibly agitated. Chests slightly puffed, nostrils flared for increased air intake, knees bent—lowering their center of gravity, primed for quick movement. “Okay. No problem. Let’s change topics. I actually wanted to tell you about this new gym I joined. The place is in this cool old warehouse, it’s like CrossFit but more approachable, I think you would really like it. I have been going five days a week. I’m in the best shape of my life. Can you tell?” Ryan fishes. Scott rolls his eyes. “Are you serious?” “You always do this!” Ryan yells. “What?” asks Scott. “Pull stuff like this!” Ryan blurts out. “Invite you to a beautiful outdoor setting to give you a compliment? A compliment that is extremely sought after for its high market value and stability?” Scott defends. The two men start moving in a circle. As Ryan moves, Scott counters, maintaining equal distance. Their primate aggression escalating from display to action. “Everyone looks good in a suit,” Ryan snaps. “I need something individual. Something I can use. I have waited for a long time for this compliment. I’ve paid my dues. I came here today to get a compliment I can use and I intend to do exactly that. Even if I have to take it.” Ryan lurches forward in an all-out sprint. Twenty paces. Scott looks surprised but remains composed. Ten paces. Ryan barrels toward him. Scott stands his ground. Five paces. Ryan widens his arms mid-stride, preparing to tackle. Two paces. Ryan leaps forward. Simultaneously, Scott drops to the ground. With rage-filled eyes, Ryan soars over Scott and then crashes face-first into the dusty earth. As Ryan lies on the ground, bruised and dazed, Scott walks toward the tree line. Before disappearing into the forest, he turns back to Ryan and pauses. “You need to get a new suit,” he advises.

Honorable Mention Once Upon A Time By superbfinch2000 Once upon a time there was a man. Once upon a time, there was the same man, yet slightly different, and in another universe. Once upon any given time, there was an infinite array of this same man, yet slightly different, in an infinite array of universes. In one universe, the man was rich, and many people adored him. In another universe, the man was poor, and people did not hate him, but tried their best to not notice him, which hurt the man more than hatred would have. In still another universe, the man was strange and made for himself an exoskeleton out of bird bones and used chewing gum. Yet despite these differences, they were all of them the same man. One may have been thinner than another, or one may have lost a leg during combat, or one may have grown an extra leg as a result of absorbing his twin in the womb, yet they were all inherently the same. Then one day, the man died. He died, once upon a time. He died once upon any given time, in an infinite array of ways. Each time he died, the remaining selves felt it, though they did not know what they felt. Once upon a given time, the man is alive; once upon a given time, he is not. Sometimes, the time between living and dying is short; other times it is long. Yet the dying always comes, and at any given time, there are fewer of the man than there were once upon a previous time. And then there will come, once upon a time, when there are none of the man, in any given time. Likewise, there will come a time when there are none of you, in any given time. I cannot say to make the most of your time, because who am I to say that the you I am addressing is not being slowly devoured by lobsters? I do not think you would like to make the most of your time; in fact, I think you would welcome a time when you are not being devoured by lobsters, even if that time necessitates dying. Perhaps you have married the person of your dreams. You may want to make the most of your time then, unless you have terrifying dreams, then once again, dying may be preferable. But just know this: once upon a time, there was a man. Once upon a time, there is a man. Once upon a time, there will be an infinite array of the same man, yet slightly different. Once upon a time there was, is, or will be you and there was, is, or will be an infinite array of you; the same you, yet slightly different. And then once upon a time, there will not be any of you, at any given time. Make of that what you will.

Honorable Mention IV By Pete Stavros You sit there, and watch, and manage not to grimace as the nurse pierces your skin and slides the slender silver needle in your vein, purplish and puckered after she tied if off with a rubber cord to get it to wake, sleepy, like you, at this early hour. She tells you to relax and you say to yourself “yeah sure, okay, fine, why didn’t I think of that?” as she connects the IV and routinely taps a few buttons and suddenly what would be poison in any other circumstance begins to race inside the circuitous route of the tube dangling from a plastic bag suspended above your head by a shiny metal stand and then into you. It feels unnervingly cold as you trace its path up your arm before vanishing deeper. You do try to relax, and you have been trying to relax ever since the doctor, white lab coat, typing into his laptop, hunt and peck, informed you that you needed this treatment. But it’s easier said than done, particularly when you’re not entirely sure what they’re dumping into your blood, only that it’s supposed to be a cure and at this point, when nothing has worked and it’s about damn time you start to get well, all you can do is trust that everyone knows what the hell they’re doing. You sigh and slip on your headphones and hit shuffle on the Spotify app and let chance, or the algorithm, decide what you’re in the mood to listen to, and lean back in the rigid olive green vinyl-covered chair with the worn footrest, and close your eyes, and think about everything, and nothing, but you can’t help but wonder how you’re going to die. It could be from this disease, or it could be from something different, something completely random and unexpected: a distracted tourist on a runaway scooter, a bone in a can of tuna. It’s going to happen regardless, the one certainty, because you’re no longer young and indestructible. It causes you to consider if you’ve done enough with your life, and you’re convinced you haven’t. But it’s always this way, each time you find yourself in this situation, more times than you deserve, your own mortality breathing on your neck, hot and stale, when you vow to do more with what life you have left, an ever-diminishing sum. But then you move on, succeeding, somehow, to increase the distance between you and death, or so you guess, and life moves on, as it always does, as it always will, until it doesn’t, and you abandon the promise you made to yourself. Not this time, you swear, as you drift off to sleep. You have that dream again, that dream you have during periods of distress: you, trapped inside a haunted house, sometimes your own house, sometimes your house from growing up, sometimes a house you don’t recognize. You’re in this haunted house, and you’re being attacked by the ghosts that have overtaken the place. You never really see them, these shapeless, shifting spirits. You can only sense their presence, and you’re quite aware they mean you harm. So you fight them off, a battle royale, with everything you have, every bit of energy and effort, an exertion, even in your dream, like nothing you’ve ever experienced. You fight, and you fight, and you fight. And you’re tired, and you’re beat, and you’re scared as shit of these ghosts, a near paralyzing terror. Yet you fight nevertheless. Something pushes you to persist, to keep going no matter what, and besides, there’s no alternative. You swing your arms wildly, and you kick your legs madly, and you yell, and you scream, and you curse. You struggle to exorcise these ghosts from this house, whatever house this might be, before you awaken with a startle and a gasp. You sit there and watch as the nurse slides the slender silver needle from your vein with a splattering of crimson drops as the spiky tip emerges. She presses a cotton ball at the point of insertion and directs you to hold it in place while she tapes it down. Then she tells you, 3 nonchalantly, as if she’s making small talk about the weather or the price of eggs, that you’re “all set” and it instantly strikes you that never has that phrase been more inaccurately applied than as applied to you at this moment because you’re anything but “all set” with a bagful of poison lurking beneath your surface. The nurse hands you an appointment card for the next dose, like you could forget these sessions, then dismisses you to go, to return to what you would be doing if you didn’t have to spend a Wednesday morning at the hospital, to carry on as if none of this was occurring. She eases you from that awful chair that left you with a crick in your neck and an ache in your back, and leads you across the scuffed linoleum floor into the hectic hallway. You pause to acclimate to upright, lightheaded and stumbling to regain your balance. Once you’re able, you walk down the hall past the other rooms of everyone else in their attempts to get well too, resisting the urge to peek in on any of them, and out of the building, out into the harsh, unforgiving sunlight of just another day as far as the rest of the world is concerned.

Honorable Mention On the Subject of Religion By Brianna Misamore I tilted my head back and downed another shot, cringing as it burned all the way down. I’d lost count of how many I’d taken. Sam, the bartender, glanced my way, checking on me in his own way. Normally he never asked questions, as long as I paid the tab he’d continue to supply me drinks and swiftly remove the evidence of any transgressions. On rare occasions he’d cut me off and mutter something about how I was wasting my life away. I could see from his eyes it was coming. I closed my eyes and waited to hear his deep voice trying to whisper “Grace, you know you’re better than this.” My hand gripped the counter searching for some sense of stability. I knew I needed to stop, but I wanted more. Grandmother always said I was a glutton and I would burn in hell for it. I tried to focus my breathing to stop the spinning and the oncoming panic attack. Opening my eyes I realized Sam had never come by, I scanned the room hoping I could convince him I was okay enough for another drink. I needed to forget who I was tonight. Who am I kidding at this point it wasn’t just tonight. If it was, I wouldn’t be a regular at this bar. My eyes finally found Sam, he was in the back corner of the room turned away from me. Over his shoulder I could see a woman twirling her dark hair and giggling at whatever was being said. Leaning forward I sighed, so much for getting his attention. Sam was good at two things: flirting and making drinks. And pulling him away from that woman would be nearly impossible. I fumbled around in my coat pocket trying to find the bills I’d crammed in there earlier. I tossed them on the counter and spun away from the bar a little too quickly. Dizziness kicked in and I felt myself losing strength in my legs. The stair railing leading to the bar basement was close enough to latch onto before I hit the ground. My hand grazed the railing barely missing and just before I completely made a fool of myself a pair of hands reached out and pulled me to my feet. Once I was able to focus again my eyes trailed up to the man who had caught me. “Uh thanks.” I mumbled. A look of concern washed over his face or was it pity? I couldn’t quite tell and I wasn’t going to stare at him long enough to figure it out. “Are you okay miss, it seems you may have had a few too many. Can I help or maybe walk you home?” Pity but masking it as concern I decided. “Thank you but I am completely fine and capable of getting myself home. I don’t need your charity. I simply tripped.” I forced myself to make eye contact and hoped that my eyes weren’t too glazed over that it would give away my lie. His dark brown eyes masked any opinion he had of the situation. It was then that I noticed the white collar and long black cassock he was wearing. Before he could respond I said “What is a priest doing in a place like this? I would think you would stay away from such filth.” I hoped the remark would unnerve him. He chuckled “I am only training to be one as of now. I’m studying at the local seminary. As for my being here, this is generally where people come when they are at their lowest. So I hold a prayer circle in the basement and allow anyone who needs to talk or seek council to meet me there. Some people find going to the church to be too much.” The dizziness and now slight nausea began taking over again. I couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol or my disdain for the church causing it this time. “So you exploit people who have no where else to turn?” I hoped the bite in my voice sounded as venomous as I wanted it to. He gave her a soft sad smile. “ I like to think of it as being an aid for lost souls.” I decided it was time to end the conversation before I said something I would deeply regret. Stabilizing, I began to turn away. Behind me he said “I hope to see you again, either in the church or maybe you’ll make your way to me here. God exists to provide love and hope.” My anger flared and I whirled around on the man “Tell me what God existed as I watched my fathers hands wrap around my delicate mothers throat? Where was he once the bottle was drained and the glass was shattered across the kitchen floor. Screams erupting from the bedroom and I prayed that my mother would still be alive come morning. Did he watch as she hid her face from the oncoming fist? Surely he wasn’t in the scriptures my father clung to? Preaching of kindness and forgiveness that extended only to him. Where was he as my mother struggled when I knew she deserved the world? And they say he is a vengeful and merciful God but perhaps he is only merciful when you’re on your knees begging and pleading for the sadness to end. He revels in your submission because he has given you no other choice than to submit. And know that I have found more kindness in bars than I ever have in between church pews.” His mouth was agape, clearly not expecting her outburst. “Goodbye priest.” He stepped forward “ May I ask your name?” “It’s Lillith.” Meeting my eyes he said “Goodbye Lillith.”

Honorable Mention The Red Jacket By Don Ray Smith Young Leeza could put on a good front in those early days. The new employee at Eagle Eye Mapping, Inc. would show up at work—pretty, petite Leeza—in designer clothes that showed off her ebbs and flows. Her straight-ironed Black woman’s hair fell at her shoulders to frame a face some would even call exotic. Eyes cinnamon, but still somehow suggesting a depth that couldn’t be penetrated. Private Property. Keep Out. Before she’d been there a week, Jared was flat-out smitten by her. It really did seem like a miracle. He would show up for work totally depressed with life and wife, see her, and instantly he believed that life really could be wonderful again. Her morning chit-chat with him was flat and cool, but Jared always felt he was taking in something more. As she listened, she opened her moist lips ever-so-slightly, white teeth revealed. And just that small movement of hers, in Jared’s mind, made him come this close to saying things he had no right to say to a woman who wore a ring on her finger. After eight years, Jared’s own marriage now seemed to have no point at all. Whenever anybody asked Leeza personal questions, her responses were automatic. Just fine, she would reply. Oh, you don’t want to hear that. But, unlike some of the other office males, whose attention for her was made up of nothing more than long leers and various forms of drooling, Jared studied her for clues that would reveal the deeper treasures he was convinced she held in her heart. She was enough of a team player to go out to lunch with the office gang from time to time. But Jared learned that Leeza always made sure another woman came along. Otherwise, Leeza had her stock answer ready. Already made other plans. Next time! A few months into her job, the sunglasses got his attention. She’d begun wearing them into work every morning, whether the sun was shining or not. Jared noticed she always kept the shades on until she got to her desk. His view of her cubicle, from across the hallway, was as good as he could have mapped out himself. Eyes now red-rimmed and damp, delicate face puffy and troubled. “Oh, just allergies,” she’d explained, as she shoo’ed away the office busybodies. One day she answered her cell phone. Another call from her husband. Jared watched her literally recoil, her jaw instantly clenching so tight that he was unnerved by its sudden ugliness. Then came the hoarse words she spoke in her own defense. “No I did not…Why can’t you….Just leave the kids out of it…“ Hearing that, Jared was tempted to ease over to her and throw out some impossibly corny line, something straight out of a Rotten Tomatoes crapola movie review. Hey Leeza, wouldn’t it be heaven to just…run away? In September, EEM prepared to celebrate its 15th anniversary. As always, it was at the 4-star Sergios, just a few blocks from the office. A clump of them were walking down the hallway when a wanna-be office general yelled, “Better take your umbrellas!” No problem for most of the women, including Leeza. They had compact umbrellas tucked down in their oversized office totes. Jared had nothing but his jacket. He went back and got it. The anniversary was a big success, especially since it was free for all the employees and their spouses. As the party wound down, one of the younger sales guys grinned and bellowed, “Who’s ready to go to the bar?” Jared made a quick glance at Leesa’s table. She was already putting on her coat to go home. Did he see a hurt in her eyes? His involuntary response surprised even himself. “Count me in!” Jared said. An hour later, Jared began the block and a half walk back to his car. Light rain had started to fall. With that, he remembered his jacket. Must have left it at the damn restaurant. The drizzle was quickly turning into a downpour as he splashed unevenly down the sidewalk and back into Sergios’ front door. The party room was already deserted, dirty dishes cleared away. He looked on the back of his chair. Not there. He checked with the servers. “Jacket? What color was it, Sir?” Hell, man, Jared bitched to himself. What difference did it make what color it was? Anybody see a JACKET? In the four months that followed, Leeza stayed her own aloof self. Jared kept at his numbing cruise-control life. And he became the state’s most recent thirty-seven-year-old man to die of a crushing heart attack. Several of Jared’s co-workers attended the afternoon funeral the next day. Leeza was among them. She kept her sunglasses on. It was around 1:30 when she returned to her empty house. Husband at work, kids not home yet from school. With the enormous house all to herself, she kicked off her heels and made her way up the winding staircase. At the top, she went into their bedroom and booty-bumped the door to shut it behind her. She reached over for the light switch, but then pulled her hand away, content to be in a large room made dim by its heavy drapes. Dr. Stamfer’s wife stepped inside her walk-in closet, found the light switch, and turned on the bright overhead light. She fanned past the expensive dresses hanging on the long clothes rod to the right, and there in the very back, she once again pulled the red jacket from its hanger. She reached behind her and turned the bright light off. There, in the protective shadows, she nuzzled the cloth to her face. She inhaled deeply, desperately, turning the cloth over in her hand until she found his fading scent. That done, Leeza lowered Jared’s jacket over her shoulders, and with her finely-manicured hands, the exotic, distant, cool Leeza pulled the empty sleeves around her and wept.

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