~The DuskCreek Bar~

You arrive just as the sun sinks behind the hills. The air smells of wet leaves and rust, and somewhere in the distance, a siren wails—once, then stops. Streetlights flicker to life one by one, casting long, warped shadows that don’t always match what’s standing beneath them. Doors are locked early here. Curtains are drawn tight. Everyone seems to be waiting for something they refuse to explain. ~fall 1975~ Bluewood/WV