charlotte woke up crying. her father sits at the end of the couch.
his voice is soft, his breath is sweet. the party is quieting down, but there are still adults talking downstairs.
charlotte is seven. she dreamt that the house was on fire. read more >
across the street. the luchesi’s.
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cheever street, late afternoon. a muffled roar pulses from a garage near the end of the block. from outside the clamor is hard to recognize, but the roar demands attention. more than one neighbor watches their clock for the agreed upon curfew of six pm to arrive, when they can call to complain. why they ever agreed to tolerate the racket is a mystery to each. he used to be such a nice boy.
step inside and the volume increases but remains indistinct without earplugs, but when you see the source, it is instantly recognizable as an up tempo punk rock song. read more >
james lives on fenton street down the block from the empty lot that once held the 7-11. a firehouse is going up slowly.
he’s a teenager, but you’d only know it from the library books in his backpack: salinger, the autobiography of malcolm x, arthur c clarke. his looks would place him in elementary school, his placement test would have him in high school. but he’s trapped in the middle world, the boiling limbo of junior high. read more >