I roll the word around my mouth. Curfew. Dad holds the transistor to his ear at the kitchen table, his back to the balcony. Why isn’t he watching the sunset over the Bay of Piraeus, cigarette in hand? Mom says we’re staying home tonight. The army will fire on anyone caught on the streets no matter who they are. Not even the prostitutes next door are entertaining guests. I follow my sisters to the roof, keep my head down. Without traffic the dark sky grows. A car revs, a shot rings out, silence. We slip back inside without a word.
Phebe Jewell is a Seattle writer and teacher. Her work appears in numerous journals, including Milk Candy Review, Flash Boulevard, Pithead Chapel, and X-R-A-Y. phebejewellwrites.com