TW: suicide Here's the thing you need to know. It’s a blistering cold night in January and my daddy is dead. I know it must be true because Brother Sixteen-Ounces told us. His real name is Brother Ernest Pound and he’s our preacher. When he arrived at church last year Larry laughed and said, “That’s sixteen ounces. You know, sixteen ounces in a pound? Get it?” So, all the church kids call him “Sixteen-Ounces.” Anyway, he wouldn’t lie. *** We had just finished eating the hamburgers Mommy made for her first boyfriend since the D-I-V-O-R-C-E. Jim said he’d help clear the table if Larry, my brother, would find the deck of cards. He taught us gin rummy a couple weeks before, and now the four of us play almost every night. Tonight, I think I hear a soft knock at the door. “Hey Emmie, how about I shuffle, and you can deal,” Jim says. I agree because I like his handsome smile. “Me and Mommy are a team and you and Lar...
Flying Island is the Online Literary Journal of the Indiana Writers Center, accepting submissions from Midwest residents and those with significant ties to the Midwest.