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**PRINT: Our 30th broadsheet, GIVES BIRTH TO MONSTERS, by Chicago-based Spencer Dew, is a tale of one man's small heartbreak, the backdrop to a contemporary landscape of well-meaning but ultimately shallow political activism, fractured communicative lines, and more ultimately enduring drives toward total inebriation. In classic Dew fashion, he'll have you laughing all the way to brink of the void. Dew is the author of the short-story collection Songs of Insurgency **WEB: DRINK IT IN Damian Caudill
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DRINK IT IN
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Damian Caudill
Caudill lives and writes in Logan, Ohio.
I swerve in and out of the shallow waves tracing figure eights in blue. The salt water spits at my bare chest and arms stinging as it seeps into fresh burns. Ace grips the side of the old boat as it groans under the weight of the motor. I push it harder into open water watching as the bright orange speedometer rises up, 40-50-60-70 finally I break through the invisible barrier and the danger seeps back in.
When you crash this fast it's like an explosion; all those pieces of shattered wood left floating on the water, a reminder of what it means to lose control. I sink into that singular image and think of the photo I left on the kitchen table, the same place where my father held me down for the first time as he brushed a lighter across my body painting my skin in black and red.
I close my eyes to see it. My father walks into the kitchen; he is back late from the gray building down the road where he puts tiny pieces of flint into cheap cigarette lighters. They come in reds, blues, yellows, and a hundred other shades; I have seen them all. He is mesmerized by what he creates; a flame that eats and eats, but is never full. Tonight the money jar is empty on the floor and he knows that I meant what I said. He spots the picture on the counter and flips it over to see the two boys together again. This time, though, Ace and I don't appear as best friends but as lovers. Our lips are locked together awkwardly, but there is no doubt in our hands, white knuckled as they grip blue jean covered hips. The moment hangs in the air following my father as he crashes through the house, blinded by the gaps in our history.
Ace's hand touches my back as I strain the engine of the stolen boat cutting through the endless ocean pattern leaving my mark behind, if only for a moment. The water will remain a witness to the crime. Every scar is burning now and I know that the photo is gone. But I don't care. Tonight we will re-create it a thousand times over, lost amongst dying stars and satellites like comets without tails.
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