They hammer nails into their fingers tear themselves with saws and do everything left-handed which is why their father calls them maudit gaucher but when was being left-handed a bad thing and their mom and aunt say they were smacked by the nuns to learn to write with the right hand and they should count themselves lucky nuns don’t do that now… more
Tag Archives: boyhood
Three Essays
FLASH NONFICTION by Brian BensonWhy do men—most of us, at least—grin through our cracked teeth and dance on our broken ankles, but then crumble, just crumble, when our noses begin to drip? Why aren’t we more embarrassed to be seen being sick, chronically ill, unsensationally uncomfortable? Why aren’t we less embarrassed to be in serious pain?… more
Loose Stitch, 1991
FICTION by Jason DeYoungIt was a clear vision, a desire to be changed by something. … more
To Harry’s Mother
FICTION by Kevin McFaddenYour son is a tough little bastard who can take quite a load of punishment.… more
Where The Big Bad World Begins
FICTION by Justin ThurmanTall as the devil, they said. At thirteen. Wingspan of a rare stork. Hands fat as chuck steaks. He should have been ruining worlds, not having his own destroyed by a pint-sized Indian in a second-hand Raiders jacket.… more
Dolls for the End of the World
FICTION by Bradley SidesThe warmth came and left, and, no sooner, it left and came. There was no way to guess what the world would become. At least it remained. Charred oak trees surrounded by misplaced puddles. Rivers as black as burnt cherries. Sputtering flames along the receding riverbanks. Days shorter and, still, longer. Patrick stood on the… more
The Fairchild
FICTION by Heather E. GoodmanThe guys have always given me shit for being good with the ladies, nicknaming me Old Yeller because I’m a stray, which is the only thing they think I could have on them. They say I milk the orphan thing, get the honeys to feel sorry for me.
or
“Carnage, anyone?” asked Dina as she approached with the Fairchild’s remnants.
or your choice… more
Learning the Pig
FICTION by Martin Reed“He twisted and rolled the pebble between his fingers, staring straight ahead at the black pig, lying tied to a post sunk in bone grey dirt in the middle of the field… more
