Here is a short story I wrote when I used to live on 173rd Street. Rae and I had a pink room on the third story of an old building and sunlight used to fill that room. I have no idea what the room looks like now but I can bet that it fills with sunlight in the afternoon. Somebody has probably made that room their bedroom but when we lived in that apartment we had that as our art room. We slept in the small blue room which was more like a cave. The people who lived there before us used to put their baby in that room. But we had no baby. I was writing a longer post today about “story writing” — one of those ‘craft things’ that usually make me sick, haha, about creating, and developmental editing, and about copy editing. I’ll post that before too long and make myself and maybe you, sick. Probably next week. But while putting together that post I tried to link two stories I had written and published when we lived and did our work in that pink room, and as often happens, the stories were revealed to me as ‘gone from the internet’ and the links dead, so I thought I would post one of the stories here today, one called “Franklin.” Thanks for reading.
I’m so grateful for your stories. They almost always catch me unawares and leave a mark inside. My breathing changes and I, uncomfortably, just sit with your characters and their lives.
Love this. I also have lots of dead links.
I’m so grateful for your stories. They almost always catch me unawares and leave a mark inside. My breathing changes and I, uncomfortably, just sit with your characters and their lives.
Tony
Holy.