I fought God for nine rounds at St. Nicks Arena in 1979. He didn’t fight under the name God. He used the name Billy Sunday, from the Twin Cities.
I fought God for nine rounds at St. Nicks Arena in 1979. He didn’t fight under the name God. He used the name Billy Sunday, from the Twin Cities.
We have officially submitted our nominees for Sundress Publications’ Best of the Net 2012contest. Choosing the best of over 240 posts, of such eclectic natures, was difficult, but these selections celebrate work that is meaningful, entertaining, and represents what we do here.
Its engine cut, the light aircraft must have sauntered over the field into the line of pines where a wing broke against a trunk and Pierre was flung face down upon a mound of earth. I’d like to have seen it, but I missed the plane dozing, wings resting on the air like elbows flopped, its occupant tossed out before he could leap—it was my reading of the situation.
Poppa and old man Allman were sitting in front of the hardware store when I rode up on my bike. Each man held a stick of wood in one hand and a pocket knife in the other. Whittling was the preferred occupation of the old men in town. “There now,” poppa said, sliding the blade smoothly down the stick he peeled away a thin curl of wood. The sliver floated down to join the growing pile at his feet. ”That’s a sharp knife.”
When the crowd around us cheers for a diving catch in left field, Mark asks me where I am, his voice cracking.
“I’m at the Red Sox game with some people from work.” Which isn’t a complete lie. Ron is my editor at the newspaper. That much is true. However, what I leave out, what Mark suspected months ago is Ron wants to sleep with me.
I eat through the inside of a mall. I spot the same tie and jacket waiting for me every morning with legs shaking and a resigned forehead that shuttles from one metaphor to another in less time than it takes to inhale the coffee and muffin that are part of the deal