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.
I read this story on Saturday, I believe. It’s well-written, as I knew it would be. I pictured it perfectly. I could relate to it very well. And it’s haunting me now, but I haven’t figured out why.
Linda, that’s so nice that you spotted the story and read it before I even posted about it. Thank you! Also, thanks for letting me know that it’s staying with you.
what a great story, Cynthia. Love the end, the last two lines.
Thanks, Jennifer, and I appreciate your mentioning the last two lines.
Congrats on the publication, Cynthia. I enjoyed the strong images, which drew me back to my own childhood. Like your MC, I can still hear the voices of my grandfathers, the warmth of their laughter as they teased.
Stephen, it’s nice to hear from you again. And thanks for your words about the story. It is wonderful that we don’t forget it all and that we can still hear those voices. Thanks for your comment.
Thanks, Lisa! And thanks for linking to this post. I appreciate it. I hope you’ll be back.