down the dark

“Ash,” he said, looking quickly down the dark road for a tall white Victorian. “Jack’s,” he said, although he didn’t quite see the house he’d looked for. “Birch,” he recited. “Cary Ann’s.” Evan grinned. “Walnut. The Broger twins.” The Pike turned and slipped down a long hill. New developments filled spaces that Evan remembered as open fields with clusters of houses and young trees. “Jesus,” said Evan. “I’ll bet Whisker’s Pond is gone.”

Lord Malinov, Flowers of Malinov

About Lord Malinov

Lord Malinov, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet
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