Template:POTM/October 2015

''The town of Arthur's Wake was dying. At least, that's what Jamie's dad always said. The man tended to wax philosophical when he was drunk, which was often. Jamie would silently sit at the dinner table and listen to the man ramble on about how things had been different when he had been growing up, how back then an honest day's work actually got you something. Jamie's mother would sit quietly at the other end of the table from his father saying nothing, gaze firmly fixed on an empty space six inches in front of her face, only stirring to refill plates or glasses or to clear the dishes. Many days her unmoving, hollow eyes were ringed with various shades of purple and yellow. On those they weren't, the bruises were simply hiding, concealing themselves in places less visible.''

''Once last year his father had been in a particularly black drunk. Profits at the factory were down. Rumor had it that the foreman would be releasing a handful of workers by the end of the week and Jamie's dad reckoned he might be one of them. Jamie had lain in the bedroom he shared with his brother staring at the ceiling for as long as he was able, tears quietly streaming down his face, listening to the shouts through the thin walls accompanied by heavy thumps and soft moans. Finally, unable to bear the sounds any more he got out of bed and retrieved his little league bat from where it rested in the corner. He made it to the door when he felt a small hand tug on his pajama sleeve.'' Read more...