Rated for Teens(13+)
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Porchlight’s Piss-Yellow Glow

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The coroner called it “death by misadventure,” which meant
she’d been grinning when the rope snapped, her neck at an
angle textbooks wouldn’t illustrate. He keeps the toe tag in
his wallet, next to the grocery lists she’d left in red lipstick,
the ink bleeding through onion skin paper like old blood.
She’d left him nothing but a shoebox of Polaroids and the
lingering ammonia reek of darkroom chemicals, each image
curling at the edges like a dying spider’s legs. Their wedding
photo was at the bottom, naturally, her smile out of focus,
he said he’d dig her up if the night’s got cold enough—
porchlight’s piss-yellow glow.

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