Fudd, by Jesse Bradley

People Holding Antlers 2 Comments

Helen stops kissing me when she feels the loose change-sized scars scattered across my stomach and side. I murmur something about a hunting accident to get her hands and mouth moving again.

“Take your pick,” my father had said. The antlers I picked the last time chafed my scalp. My father licked at the dried blood on the tips of his antlers before he strapped them on. We got into a three-point stance. “You aren’t a man until you can wound me.”

 

—–

jbradleypicJ. BRADLEY is a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominated writer whose work has appeared in numerous literary journals including decomPHobart, and Prairie Schooner. He was the Interviews Editor of PANK, the Flash Fiction Editor of NAP, and the Web Editor of Monkeybicycle. He is the author of the poetry collection Dodging Traffic (Ampersand Books, 2009), the novella Bodies Made of Smoke (HOUSEFIRE, 2012), the graphic poetry collection The Bones of Us (YesYes Books, 2014), illustrated by Adam Scott Mazer, the prose poem chapbook It Is A Wild Swing Of A Knife (Choose the Sword Press, 2015), and the forthcoming flash fiction chapbook No More Stories About The Moon (Lucky Bastard Press, 2015). His flash fiction chapbook, Neil, won Five Quarterly‘s 2015 e-chapbook contest for fiction. He is the curator of the Central Florida reading series There Will Be Words.. He is the curator of the Central Florida reading series There Will Be Words and lives at iheartfailure.net.

Author photo by Laura J. Cole

Comments 2

  1. submission

    Spring Morning

    Walking the dog today,
    I realized I was much in my own head.
    The way my father was when we went hunting.
    If we were separated, I could hear his feet
    in the dry autumn leaves, not too far off to my left.
    When we would cross a fence, he would instruct
    me how to get over it without blowing my head off.
    I carried a 20 gauge shotgun, his was a 12 gauge,
    three shot automatic. We never ever got a pheasant.
    If we flushed one he would intentionally miss,
    our guns firing simultaneously.

    Later we’d walk the tall weeds by the railroad,
    and he was silent again. Coming our way
    were three hunters with dogs, and the dogs
    chased the pheasants toward us. He would give
    a sign to the other hunters that we were there,
    and when the pheasants flushed, lead beebees
    fell all around us.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *