mr. luchesi starts from a shallow sleep.
the alarm clock says 3:34 am. that makes two-and-a-half hours sleep he’s managed since crawling into bed at 9:30, out of ideas, resenting his wife for making him put the kids to bed a third night in a row.
she sleeps soundly beside him. she must have arrived in bed sometime between 11:30 and 12:45, his longest successful streak of unconsciousness tonight. read more >
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after his third beer, the old records came out. all the best are worn thin from late night listening sessions years ago, eleven college kids crammed in a small room, cigarette smoke, empty beer cans, loud conversations about politics, breakfast cereal, and music: pulling out “after the gold rush” to prove that neil young’s voice is more expressive than nilsson’s.
the once obsessive application of cleaning solution has left the track almost unlistenable, but neil fights through the static. and though it sounds like it might skip at any minute, the needle miraculously holds on till the end.
but there’s no resolution.
like the key changes and just hangs there… read more >
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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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 >
darkness attracts light.
the contrast can be thrilling.
but it’s always and forever darkness.
and over time, the light gets tired of doing all the work. read more >