New Fiction: "Saint Joan" at the Urbanite

She is near because the scent of Jungle Gardenia, with top notes of orange and sage, idles in the air. Then I see her, a robe of navy and yellow silk, in the passenger seat of our minivan, smoking a Chesterfield.

"Why must everything be a contest?" Joan Crawford looks back at my children as they fight over a video game, kicking, pushing. They ignore her at the height of her drama. I let her talk, talk until her eyebrows arch almost perpendicular to her eyes and she sighs so heavily it tickles my ear.

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