Two Fictions
Meg Pokrass

Avenue Of The Giants

He'd answered this question before, with assurance.
We drove north fast without stopping, our bladders full. Earth smells began to crowd the air vents. Hundreds of redwoods rushed toward our car, a posse of seeds and pods. Sunlight spiked the vinyl car seats.


She was different that year, her hair cut short as a boy's, staring at the ocean. He was angry. He wanted her to do something. She preferred to sit and feel her bones, the sharp earth. Just to see the thick air like webbing, finger her scalp.