Beneath a bustling mustache, my big boned beta left behind little flecks of naan
When you’re a kid, you don’t realize it when a Moment is happening. At age six, you can stand at the window as your dad climbs a ladder high into a tree to cut down a dead branch, and you can watch him suddenly twist and fall and swiftly slice open his right thigh with the bow saw, and you can be freaked out by all of his wincing and cursing and by the helplessness of your mom’s panicked tears, but you go to bed that night — maybe a little shaken up from all the blood, maybe a little concerned about the possibility of nightmares — and you have no idea that 25 years later, you’ll still be able to replay the entire scene in your mind.
By Osric Knight The title of this series is a bashful nod to The King’s English, by Kingsley Amis, a reference I’d be remiss not to recommend to the curious […]
I don’t know which one was Zainab’s, but those two were twins of terror.
Stone landed a left that made me split at my seam. I’m not laughing, I’ll show you in a second. Of course that is fairly normal over the course of a fight, you just start fucking falling out of yourself. But to do that in one shot, two minutes into a fight, well that’s a hell of a goddamn punch.
Despite all that the subway does for us—ferrying us back and forth 24 hours a day, disappointing us often but failing us never—we don’t seem to have any sense of ownership over it at all. We feel like it’s someone else’s responsibility, not ours, to keep it clean.
The last days of the Federation of Black cowboys: A photo-essay.