Tag Archives: Jacob Stratman

            Or Fight the Good Fight When my brother and I got bored, we’d pick. Quit pickin’, my mother would yell when we were in the snack drawer before supper. Stop pickin’, she would reprimand if we nagged her raw about … Continue reading →

I want to believe that she left him one night, sitting there alone at the Red Barn, after a couple six or seven beers, for some lanky Razorback, some kid with Hog stickers all over his truck. She just grew … Continue reading →

“This will become something.” Even though she was implying that her suitcase, now empty, could be, perhaps, used for dirty clothes, I loved her more for that moment, for that sentence. For the hope that one thing could open itself … Continue reading →