Kyle Minor


My father set my hand down on the table. He lifted the Bowie knife, the same way he did the day he plunged it into the heart of the deer he taught me to skin out at Pa Haslitt’s. There was no skunk in the room but I could smell skunk the same way I did at Pa Haslitt’s. “Don’t you move,” my father said. He plunged the knife between my middle finger and my ring finger, millimeters to spare from the webbing between the fingers. The table shook. The split in the countertop extended past my fingertips. The knife stood up like a penis. “It’s good you trust me,” my father said, and punched my arm hard. I never loved him more.

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