Fiction by Amy Feltman

Smelling of Apples

Rachel is trying to figure out the perfect line break when she hears Carraway’s footsteps. Outside, the leaves are changing color, brassy oranges and sunflower yellows. She stares through the window at the roots of the trees and the dim blue glow of the emergency phone boxes that surround the quad. Carraway knocks on the door: two long, one short, meaning — in carefully calibrated roommate code — that she is not alone. Rachel doesn’t answer but swings her legs to the side of her chair, turning her head to see Carraway’s entrance.

Continue reading this article…

Already a subscriber? Log in above to keep reading. Or subscribe now for immediate access to the complete digital and print editions, plus exclusive online access to Lilith's back issues.