The new Front Porch Journal, which includes my story “Bubble,” is out and on the virtual stands.
Among other things, “Bubble” is about — what else? — real estate:
Take me, the house calls as soon as they climb out of the car and stand on the cracked sidewalk in front of it. Martin looks over at Sheila. Surely she hears it. But she’s just propping one foot against the broken carriage block at the curb. She stoops over to tie her shoelace.
I was built upon buttons and shards of bone, the house whispers to him. But in the summer these thorny vines will bear roses.
Vines creep over the lip of its porch. In a month or so, there might—or might not—be roses. The front yard is a tangle of brown stalks. Bushes have swallowed the chain-link fence that surrounds it. Sheila steps up onto the porch, stopping to shield her eyes and press her cheek against the dirty glass set into the front door.