My House, The Day A Brick Fell Down
My house grew up on a dusty street. On summer nights men and women would walk by. Arm in arm they'd sway as lovers. I was young, too young to know what this love was. Sometimes I'd open a window and lean my elbows on the sill and rest my chin in my small hands. From the house I'd get a promise late at night not to say what I was doing. Watching under the moon when my parents thought I was asleep and dreaming. Me and the house were childhood friends. There was a boy across the street we would often see. A young man, really. I wanted to be like him when I was older, because he was free and had a girl who was pleasing to my eyes. Then one day he wore an army uniform, gleaming with polished shoes. My parents said he signed up to fight far away in some Asian war. I was sad to hear this, I thought the house was too. Then they said he died in that far away place. That night I opened a window and rested my chin in my small hands. I cried a tear. The next day my father found a brick, and said it must have fallen down during the night.
The Living Dead
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