Part I
“1929 and Bleeding”By: Bethany Joy Galeotti
Fireflies light up the cobblestone road as, here and there, the roar of a Dodge or Ford clamors its way up or down the lane. One grows accustomed to the muggy, breathless evenings of the South. The rabid mosquitoes swarm, the scent of magnolias is dizzying. The Spanish moss, which in the sunlight is an ethereal charm, now hangs, looming in the bug-lit night and hiding war-torn ghosts in its shadows.
The Cape Fear River laps up against the rotten wood and stone below the backyard gardens of No. 21 Ann Street. In the distance there is a delicious murmur of some gay affair– music, chatter and the occasional, irritating laughter of that one inevitable party guest who is three sheets to the wind and determined to capture the attention of the crowd. If you were to have peeked your little face over that rotten wood and stone, you would have seen this very thing.





























