My story, “The Splitting Sound,” appears in the fall issue of Clapboard House. Here’s the first paragraph:
Across the street, I leaned against the yellow rental car. The house was smaller than I remembered, but that’s what everyone always said. The roof needed redoing. The gray paint was peeling. The red door was some sort of dark color, not black exactly. I took a breath and looked around the horseshoe street on which I’d ridden my bike every summer for eleven years. The house was the U of the horseshoe, the inside of the U. It was one story and took up two lots. There was a large lawn. A picture window in front. It had all seemed nicer then, but I wondered if at thirteen, niceness was something I would have noticed.