Jerry Vilhotti


The new home in Burywater stood by the swamps where mosquitoes roamed like antelope. If Johnny were naked and freezing his brothers, sisters and mother would not have been able to give him - this favorite child of the father - dry wood to warm his bones; instead, they threw chunks of spat-on wood to the direction of frostbite. Their house, the shape and colors of all the other houses on the street, grew darker and colder as his parents became older still; having produced him in their old age making him become an old born baby, and Johnny cried as he blew upon the black-purple colored coals he had heaped into the green furnace to make them hot so heat could happen around the house and into all the rooms. He knew there were not enough pieces of coal. He knew. He knew.

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