A journal of narrative writing.
Swinging for the Fences

My father anchored the legs of our swing set to the ground in balls of cement, but when we swung hard, we got it rocking up into the air and down like a giant bull stomping its feet. My father smoked cigarettes and drank beer in the driveway after work in dusk before dinner watching us swing as he shed his factory skin. Higher, he said. Harder, he said. Nearly delirious, we imagined we could tip it over, but we never did, our bull penned in, made mad by confined space. Never even getting a chance to chase the cape. Each foot landed back into its dirt hole in the weedy fenced-in yard as we dug ourselves in deeper.