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I guess dads were breakable after all.
When I made the discovery little over a week ago, I was far too excited to think in such rational terms. I had been foolish, addicted. I see that now.
The wind blows cold and lonely off the prairie at night, hurtling along at ground level, then rising up, washing over the house.
He was beautiful if you knew him, and could be a real bastard when he wanted to, and a lot of times when he didn’t.
A descriptive flash piece built of 3-word phrases.
I want to stop and ask for an explanation, but that isn’t an option because gravity and target workout pace dictates when I can stop.
The old ways were coming back, too. Old tastes. Religion. Cigarettes. Casual racism, masturbation and chastity belts, and long, long fireside stories told on frigid winter nights.
Larry Fischer had a new bitters kit he wanted to try, the artisanal kind packaged with letterpress and pipette.
The right leg kicks the football. The heart beats. The lungs breathe. The mouth opens. These actions belong to a body that used to belong to a girl.
What could be an endless ocean lay at the prow. Where the deep rosewood deck ends the dark water begins.
Every year, they arrived overnight—hulking beasts of steel, purring in anticipation under the harvest moon. Their shoulders jutted over the trees.
I wasn’t expected to live long. Born in the shadow of a great war, it was casually assumed I would perish in the next.