Tom Driver, Croswell Grand Prize, Flash Fiction
The guys from the shop are over and dismantle the wood chipper. They dig a hole by the back yard fire pit and bury it.
Shit steel thin gauge, Lou says.
Cheap screws stripped threads, Frank adds.
We toast the burial with beers. With the bandages, I fumble my can. Sign him for the Lions! Lou says and slaps me on the back.
Im not sure what happened. The guys say shoddy product. I say some dark force, some subconscious pull lured me into the blades.
With my cleft hands, Im a carnival freak, a circus show lobster boy. My 3-year-old is even afraid of me. You have pincers, daddy, like a crab.
The wives and girlfriends show with the salsa and potato salad. The coals glow and the burgers smoke. Im not hungry. My nubs throb and my heart aches. I want to toss the Frisbee.Send comments to firstname.lastname@example.org