Flash fiction, inspired by a house that was torn down on my block today.
The sewing machine man and his wife lived here for a hundred years, give or take. When they were young, the trolley tracks ran right up the middle of the street. The horse carriages went down at break-neck speed not because the hill was all that steep (though a kid on a bicycle could peddle himself breathless) but because some horses just have an evil glint in their eyes.
After the road was paved, the sewing machine man and his wife parked their 1953 Buick in the corner of the yard. Eventually the tire ruts made a driveway. They set up shop because what with all the modern conveniences, the neighborhood housewives could all trade their foot treadle machines for modern electric sewing machines that plugged in and rattled off at a startling speed. You could button-hole your thumb before you realized what you were doing. Continue reading