“I am always drawn back to places where I have lived, the houses and their neighborhoods.” Truman Capote, Breakfast at Tiffany’s

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.