Melody jostled a dust-coated box into the backseat of her car. The box had remained untouched for the three years she'd been at Harvard. Why had she insisted on bringing it to law school? She'd just ... [+]
The Pugilist in Repose on His Porch, Most Sundays
Christopher X. Ryan's story, "The Pugilist in Repose on His Porch, Most Sundays," was originally published in Short Edition’s August '19 Rendez-Vous. Born on the island of Martha's Vineyard, Christopher now lives in Helsinki, Finland. His work has appeared in a wide range of journals. He can be found at TheWordPunk.com.
The moments of lucidity were rarer and rarer, but when they came, he regaled me with tales of swallowed teeth, basement brawls, and AIDS tests administered at midnight in ramshackle midtown health centers. This was the seventies, when he was the only gay boxer he knew of. And he hadn't heard of one since. "Can you imagine," he said, leaning forward in his rocking chair, "feeling strong attraction to someone, then repeatedly bashing them in the face with the hopes of making them pass out? It wears on you. It gnaws on your soul, your very fucking being." I remained silent, the pitcher of pink