Christmas Island

  Christmas Island   by Ray Succre   Back on the isle of my upbringing, there was a tavern.  Christmas came and grunted the assertive dads into the tavern, these rebutting parents talking over their money and cubs.  In December, the marina was a man-bar for bulls; they came vacant but fatherly, net-haulers and knife-writers in the bantering liquid, a torpor of bulls, each in a whiskey blanket of shit, luxuriant as giants of reticence, big-titted men and felons, fish-reeking drinkers late in the marina tavern, men sorting ever closer- watching Saint Nicholas approach like a red tide.  Christmas was not … Continue reading Christmas Island