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St. Jake Of The Funhouse


Douglas Kolacki


Copyright © 2011 by Douglas Kolacki

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St. Jake Of The Funhouse

The house was alive. The front porch planks slid back and forth when Edward mounted them. The stairs leading inside rocked up and down, air jets kept blowing his bangs into his eyes, and the whole place careened and rollicked as if trying to shake loose from its foundations. He clutched his hardcover book with both hands, sweated, cursed, struggled to keep his balance.

He could be out on the midway, riding the Tilt-A-Whirl or buying pink cotton candy—he'd always loved that sweet grittiness in his mouth—but not the shooting gallery. No, never the popping rifles of the shooting gallery! He refused to handle even a replica of something made to kill. He flared with anger, and in so doing lost his balance and clattered to the floor. The book flew from his hands with a flapping of pages.

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