boston gothic
- there is no grid system in boston. every street is a circle. you miss your turn and try to double back, but the asphalt is giving way to cobblestone. you can hear muskets just ahead.
- boston common always closes at 9pm. it locks from the inside.
- you walk out of mike’s pastry in the north end and the streets are deserted. there’s a rumbling beneath your feet. it smells like molasses.
- every time you crane your head to peek down the dark subway tunnel for the train, you can see two bright pinpricks of light in the distance. they’ve been there for 30 years, watching. you look away and try not to breathe.
- they’re always trying to fill the pot holes and the cracks in the sidewalks. it’s from the ice, they say. come morning, the holes always return. bigger. deeper.
- the next train will arrive in 5 minutes. days have passed; winter is setting in. the next train will arrive in 5 minutes.
- you arrive at logan airport and it’s empty. the intercom crackles, “this is the final boarding call.” no flight is specified. it’s time to go.
- the red line train pulls up, empty. you get on and it comes to a sudden halt in the tunnel. the lights go off. you hear the muffled sounds of ‘sweet caroline’ in the distance. it’s getting closer.
- the citgo sign looms above the brownstones. no matter how far you walk, it is always there.
- you hear rustling. it’s just the turkeys, you say. you hear screams echo in harvard square. it’s just the turkeys.
