Monday Will Never Be The Same: Short Fiction

Monday Will Never Be The Same
By Brian James Spies
When I was a child, there was an old abandoned house by the creek that ran past the park. We all called it Freddy Krueger’s house. One summer, when I was eleven my friends and I dared another kid to go inside it, he wouldn’t so we teased him. We had spent most of the mornings that summer painting the bathrooms inside the arts and crafts shed with characters from Bloom County. In the afternoon, we would ride our bikes to the bunny trails and do tricks while we smoked Camel Wides. The evening before the fourth of July, we blew up Black Cats and got drunk in the park, I met an older girl who said she was a lesbian. When it would rain, we would hide under the pavilion so as not to get wet. We would drink Zima and fight for no reason in particular. We would never be that young again. Sometimes I wonder how we survived those hot summer days and cool summer nights, then I remember that not all of us did.