Seven Turns and the Articulate Stranger

The dark, drafty old house was lopsided and decrepit, leaning in on itself, the way an aging possum carrying a very heavy, overcooked drumstick in his mouth might list to one side if he were also favoring a torn Achilles tendon, assuming possums have them. The home was off the _radar_ of any real estate agent with the _goal_ of making the million dollar sales club.

It was used by the local youth as a hangout. They played illegal games of _laser_ tag through its splintering doorways and made hasty dashes up and down the disintegrating stairs. They climbed onto its roof at night, when the police weren't patrolling, and watched _jets_ take off at the nearby airport. Sometimes they lofted rotten _eggs_ at the passersby on the sidewalk, running for cover through a convenient hole when the victims looked up, chalking their misfortune up to a wayward bird.

On prom night, Jenny _danced_ alone inside its walls with her invisible, articulate stranger and her broken heart. Her _gown_ was covered in cobwebs.