The Care and Training of Wild and Captive Hawks by M. Bennardo

“When a falconer catches a wild hawk, there is no need to train the bird to kill.” His name was Saunders and he looked almost like a hawk himself, in brown houndstooth jacket and hunting cap, rumpled beige shirt, and yellow riding boots. There were two chairs nailed to the floor of the mews, and […]

Anaphylactic Love Song by M. Bennardo

It wasn’t my whole life that flashed before my eyes. It wasn’t even my whole time with Lisa.

It was more like unconnected vignettes, just funny things, flashing all in a row as my throat closed up and choked the air out of my lungs, as my hands pawed at my bag where I always kept my EpiPen–

Flashes of the psychotic ways that she loved me.

Sympathy for a Sportsman by M. Bennardo

—Hae some sympathy for a sporstman —I say, as he dumps my clubs out in the groundskeeper’s shack, the hard-worn sticks clattering at his feet.

—A sportsman, eh? Is that whit ye think ye are?

He’s thinking, I reckon, about the bit of turf on the sixth hole I stepped on to improve my lie. Or the extra reach I gave my drop on the twelfth.

—Aye, an auld one —I say. —With a living to earn yet, who must sometimes take his advantages where he can.

Bad form, I know, for a clubhouse pro to play anywise than according to Hoyle. But he’d wagered a guinea a hole (just to keep the edge on, he said) and the flash of his gold turned my head.