Dwight had just torn open the pack of Lucky Strikes he’d stolen from Mort’s Little Shopper when we saw the plane going down. We were in the patch of woods behind St. John’s, where we liked to horse around on those long summer afternoons when our mothers were working and our fathers were either slouched in front of the TV or down at Miller’s Tap tying one on.
“Holy Shit!” Dwight said. “You see that?”
Continue reading “Portraits of the Dead and Dying by William R. Soldan”
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