Shannon Gerrity

Below, find five excerpts from five different perspectives (the animal, the homeowner, the police officer, the neighbors, me) about a recent crime found in a Connecticut backyard. What of this pressure cinching on my legs, tied to my arms, bound to my belly? Tighter and tighter it digs, through my fur, lost in my skin, found in my bone. “We’re going to show her,” it says, as though I had signed up, trained the message, made a pact to the plan. What could I show? The rounded

This is Ed. He's a treasure hunter, searching for secrets of the sand. It gets him walking on the beach. He picked up this hobby from his brother-in-law who also hunts regularly. For Ed, it's not so much the find, but the meditation. He pads along Virginia Beach and concerns himself with the unexpected: the lawn mower screw, the tent peg, the bottle cap. He's found two silver womens' necklaces, a ten caret wedding ring, and a debit card with the pin written on the back, "With

"I have a ankle!" the wee one triumphantly proclaimed as she heaved-ho-ed up the hill, her thigh stacked on a knee, socketed to the shin, ratcheted to the infamous ankle. Arms outstretched, she balanced about holes and heaps and charged forward. "My brother said," she reported reassuringly, gathering her breath, as she reached the fringe of my blanket and my very own outstretched ankle. "My brother said I have a ankle," she repeated. Between breaths. For emphasis. "Wow!" I bo