Originally from the Midwest. Currently living in Los Angeles with my wife, daughter and two dogs. I write fiction.
We first found out my dad owned my grandma’s condo when it burned to the ground. A result of poorly fabricated insulation and improper installation, the fire started in the building’s attic and quickly spread downward. My grandma lived on the top floor, and her home was soon engulfed. The flames didn’t abate until the hoses were hooked up, and by that time, they were eating away at the garden level, having wound their way down the concrete of the Brutalist apartment building like orange and yellow vines. Everyone was surprised that a building with so much concrete could burn so quickly.
Always a Hoot at the Family Farm
After a fruitless search of the crumbling farmhouse’s two under-furnished main stories, rotting attic and moldy cellar, Peter followed a series of strained and impatient hoots out into the aggressively moonlit night where he found a barn owl nested in the outhouse next to his father’s lifeless body.