Truman had planned to take the long way home from school, to visit the swans at that lake in Prospect Park on his way to Flatbush. He’d saved the crusts of his sandwich to feed them. But it was getting dark, and it was best he head directly home on the No. 2 train instead of walking, else Tante would have his hide.
He dozed off in his seat, dreaming he was back on the island again―imagining himself lying on the sand, the sound of surf and gulls in his ears; imagining the colorful fishing boats all lined up on the beach at the end of the day, the sun slung low; imagining his mother calling him home for dinner… TRUUUUUUU-mahn.
Was that really her?
TRUUUUUUU-mahn.
No. […]
This story appeared in Evening Street Review, Number 32, Winter 2021. ◾ Request full text ◾ See all stories
