Grip by Joe Ricker

Bare branches clawed at the sky and revealed the church steeple in the distance. Emily Grant kicked through the wet leaves, making her way out of the woods toward the landmark. The red-yellow rust color tourists took pictures of, colors that rested flat and glossy in calendars for people who lived below, where the black and white bars contained their days, had been brought down by the rain. Leaves clung to the bottom of her right sock. The pink, untied laces of her left sneaker dragged over wet tar.