My Fiction

Going down the cellar stairs myself to exchange places with my young son, I'm assaulted both visually and in an olfactory sense. My old BB gun leans in the corner of the door jam, waiting, news clippings line the wall as I go downward: "young boy keeps unclaimed returned money", my mother had made such a fuss that I had turned in money I had found in the bathroom at the restaurant where we had dinner. I hated going to the bathroom in public places, specifically, going "number two". ...