Explore

“Bo? I need you to be a big boy now,” she said. “Are you ready?"

My father was neither kind nor strong in his bruising.

Our father turned to me and said, Why does he sound like a girl.

Here’s a first, he said, some nutbag wants to dig the grave himself.

The story doesn’t begin until the van breaks down, I always say.

Jimmy’s jacket, mittens, and shirt were in a pile next to his frozen body.

The store was one of his last-ditch efforts to make a pile of money.

Papa’s link to that pond was a matter of blood. And the delicious carp.

“Mom, don’t you think the fucking racism is worse than my profanity?”

“I wish my father was alive to see how lazy I could really be.”

I loved hopping freight trains. It was cheap, dirty, and dangerous.

That’s what I want, to feel terrified, excited, and free, all at once.

Betsy recoiled, understanding instinctively what was to come.

People only see that side of him. He is still a boy, learning to be a man.

I knew my father started the fire. It’s not the first place he’s burned down.

Saint Clark, halo and all, patron of wildlife shows and the cigarette tax.

I wanted to forget my parents’ slow dying together in Ohio.

I have already begun the life-long work of hating my father.

You see, I plan on remaining here as the most foolish god in the world.

Ideology, all of us inanimate in the face of the onslaught.

There is a pure fear, in waking somewhere you have not lain down. She runs until her blisters bleed. Then, she runs some more.

Here's an affecting glimpse into a story of fatherhood.

“It’s out of the question. It’s a waste of your time. And my money.”

Without you, would I still be reaching out for myself now?

Her father is important in his village and has three wives.

Some days he thinks he has patients to see, meetings to attend.

Vita brevis, source of all not enough. Light leaked from stopped time.