The short fiction of j hardy carroll
Kids together, we come up on the West Side corners, never knowing the clock. Never showing care Way I remember it was mostly summer B-Mo heat hanging on you like a jacket city stink of piss and spilled beer garbage strewn on corners swarmed with flies a cold orange pop was all we want or…
My father was in one of his moods. Arms crossed, he sat in the front seat glaring at us through the windshield. “Why is Grandpa mad?” Buddy asked. “Doesn’t he like camping?” “Obviously not,” Cliff said. “Why’d we bring him then?” I looked at Cliff. “He can’t stay alone, Bud. You know that.” “Why not?”…