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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “What Remains” Down in the Dirt, v143 (the March 2017 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Study in Black the Down in the Dirt July-Dec. 2016 collection book		get the 418 page Jan.-April 2017 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Order this writing in the book Negative Space (the 2017 poetry, flash fiction & art collection anthology)		get the 298 page poem, flash fiction & art collection anthology as a 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

The Epicenter of Sin

C.L. Coffman

    The house sat unremarkably at 600 O’Neill Street for some sixty years before it transformed into so much more. The original owner widowed at a young age, lost his only child shortly after, and became a hoarder. When he lost the ability to care for himself, he was forced to sell, but the seeds of looming depression were planted and fed the depravity that would soon live in the house. When the family first arrived, the house was painted a putrid yellow with awful red shutters. The yard was overgrown and the white stone garage looked as if it would collapse at any moment. Still, the peculiar family bought the property and began to renovate it. They turned it into a place that would become infamous, an epicenter of sin for a small city.
    The family consisted of five. The mother should be canonized, she loved everyone with all her heart, yet was still driven slightly insane when left for a teenage babysitter. She took care of all who stayed under her roof, yet slept alone most nights in the master bedroom. The unambitious stepfather was once known as a brilliant mechanic but preferred cooking methamphetamine to working on automobiles and could rarely be found sleeping anywhere if he happened to be present. The wise-junkie-indigent uncle couldn’t resist the spike and its sweet relief. He slept on an air mattress on the living room floor until he harpooned it chasing an invisible foe coming off an 80 hour meth binge. The oldest boy was considered a money hungry bastard who would do anything to turn a buck. He shared a small room with his younger brother until mustering up the courage to escape. Lastly, the youngest boy was a lunatic dope-head poet who didn’t give a shit about material possessions and loved to gamble. Though this story isn’t about them, without them there would be no story.
    The house attracted all sorts but mostly fiends looking for some sort of a fix. It harbored runaways until they were ready to go home. You could hear anything from terms like hosing down the meat curtains or tenderizing the baby barrel to heated debates on politics, music, love and philosophy. You could always find someone willing to gamble on anything from cards to darts to foosball to all things conceivable. The lights were always on as someone was always awake and in most cases welcoming. Age wasn’t a deterrent. The house catered to all, from honor students to a slovenly amputee biker chick. Those who managed to find the house found comfort in its lawlessness and will always remember it kindly.
    After the family arrived, they sided the house grey with black shutters. They filled the yard with random junk and broken down cars. They killed the grass, and within a few years, the house began to radiate with a near visible pulsing tone of gluttony. There were always little ankle-biter dogs dragging strange oddities home, including the hindquarter of a deer, which the family marveled in watching the tiny dog drag home for nearly a week. In front of the house, you would find an assortment of vehicles on any given day, but a blue 1972 Impala with two curious bullet holes was always present. The dilapidated garage became a cook house and you could smell the crank brewing from a block away.
    Walking inside was overwhelming for most. Some sort of commotion was always afoot and an unmistakable sense of uneasiness constantly threatened the delicate balance of the home. The house stunk of dog, stale smoke, and liquor, but it was masked at dinner time by the smell of the most delicious cooking many ever had the good fortune to eat. Each room in the house held similarities. They were generally clean but showed signs of violence, and you could find a TV, ashtray, drugs, drug paraphernalia, and copious amounts of pornography in all of them. Most who passed through were more amazed by the amount of porn than the casual lay about of pipes, needles or the pharmaceutical company like collection of prescription medications. The ominously sticky basement was equipped with a makeshift bar and held the most evidence of the carnage that took place in the house. It was not uncommon for the family to find random friends, and sometimes outright strangers, sleeping down there in the morning as that is where all nights, and in some cases, weeks ended.
    The house saw countless law enforcement agencies pass through its doors over the years and even more criminals, yet no one was ever arrested there. Still, patrons of the house can be found in no less than ten different penitentiaries across the country, including Leavenworth. So many laughs were had, so many tears were shed, and so much blood was spilled there. Just like all curiosities the house faded away. The saintly mother passed. The stepfather was imprisoned. The indigent uncle got his shit together and made a little progress with his drug habit. The oldest boy blew town before things really got weird and tries to deny where he came from. The youngest boy went mad and spiraled downward. Today, the garage is gone, the house is a new color, and there is rarely anyone there. It has been years since I’ve been there but I will always remember it for what it was, a place without borders, where anything was possible, and judgment rarely passed.

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