There are those places, homes, I suppose, where only the back door is ever used, though, coming off the damned hinges from being thown open, and slammed shut. We would go there sometimes, to party with them, drink and smoke, while their little ones sat in front of the tv, vibrating from the volume in the far room, flies lighting upon them, crawling.
He wore his filthy hair long, like us kids, never seen without a faded red bandana to keep it in place. He must have slept in the thing. He wasn’t home much, though. A few angry words, a few grunts, and he was gone, screen door slamming behind him, banging, banging, banging, until coming to rest.
She always seemed to be wearing a pink nightgown, stained, but sheer, her breasts, and the dark, blonde triangle between her legs, showing through. The more we smoked, and drank, the more we looked at her breasts, bouncing, swaying, as she choked on the smoke hit. She didn’t seem to mind, and she had a special pipe she used, shaped like a penis, with the bowl at the base. Cupping the balls in her hand, and gripping the shaft with the other, she would suck in, deeply, looking at me out of the corner of her heavy, bloodshot eyes as she took it in.
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juvenescence: tales of boyhood
Ficción GeneralThis is a collection of short stories and prose regarding the evanescence of childhood and the common confusion of the teenage years. I have many parts to add to this, childhood, though fleeting, had its share of tales and lessons.
