A journal of narrative writing.

As boys we stole down 26th Street to Dean's and loaded up our pockets with Fireballs and Bazooka. We filled our guts with Slurpees, pored over every aisle as though the first time before retiring, belly-sick, to the front stoop, where we flipped baseball cards and murdered our teeth with the sugary haul. We'd stay past dusk, refuse to shiver no matter how cold it got, squinting to see who'd won which player in the dull burn of Dean's single, skinny lamp eking light through the front store window. It was this way with us for years, for as long as our mother and father shared a home, the two of them penned like mongrels, clawing at each other for dominance. Instead of the snarling we lost ourselves inside the racks of candy and comics, the ice cream case busting with Nutty Buddies and Push-Ups, and whatever else we could get our filthy hands on. Dean didn't care if we didn't always buy, and sometimes doled out chocolate like soldiers to native punks. We thanked him for these gifts, this foreign place that wasn't home no matter that we lived there. Many years later, long after our parents called it quits and my brother and I made new lives with wives and kids of our own, long after some dog-tired stranger fell foolishly through Dean's front door mid-April and stabbed him in the throat, killed him for whatever chump change he might have had, I still spin by the spot where us brothers flipped cards, eyeball the polished signpost out front that now announces Wolf & Son Insurance, a place you can go for protection from fire and flood, accidental death, or policies for extra life.