It was the first time that I had ever hated the sound of my own name. "Tommy, you're up," the coach had yelled down from the entrance of the dugout. I was sitting on the end of the bench next to my ... [+]
Steve Denehan lives in Kildare, Ireland with his wife Eimear and daughter Robin. He is the author of two chapbooks and four poetry collections. "Winter Dark" is in Short Circuit #11, Short Édition's quarterly review.
I wake, creakingthe room is coldthe house is silentthe day waitsI tell myself to get upthe instruction is ignoredI tell myself to get upon the count of tenI count to tentwicelie thereon my backin the only piece of warmthfor miles aroundagain, I count to tensit up, stand upnotice that I grunt nowin the sittingin the standingI walk to the bathroomsore hipsore kneeI open the doorthe soundquiet any other timemachinegun loud nowwinter dark warm feet cold tiles I fumble for the light switchthe flashoverloading my eyesthe bulb blowswith a small popwinter dark, againjust one half second of light time