They lived in squalid shelters along a trail that led from the sea, beyond the palm trees, through the regimental headquarters area and on toward towering mountains. There was a swamp nearby and it sent forth a briny stink. The shelters weren’t substantial enough to be called huts. They were, at best, crude shebangs made of ponchos and stripes of canvas laced to flimsy warped frames fashioned from tree branches lashed together with vines or scraps of tent ropes. There was enough shelter to fend off some small part of the daily rains.
Here’s a video of me reading a story in February 2020 before Covid brought the world to its knees.
At the first funeral I ever attended I ended up in the grave.
Forgive me, I’m an accountant. It’s a problem that the therapy and
drugs have failed to cure.
This story belongs to my sister, Margaret, but she’s not here to defend it. So here goes.
The ceiling started talking to him in September.
Years ago the Chicago police pulled me over and I found myself living in Nelson Algren’s world.
