Fiction: The Scars of Manhood

By JD Clapp

He looks at the snaggle tooth scar on the back of his hand, forty years jack-o-lantern rotted, running across his knuckles downhis fuck you and ring fingers, complements of this old mandying in that bed. Instantly, he’s back on the morning, daddymean-drunk on whisky, his teapot boiling over on his dog shitjob, nagging wife, and girly-boy son. Storm fallen oak branch on the two-track, blocking deer camp and real men, his pop slurs instructions, “go clear the road boy and hand me a beer.” Dad says, “man-up son if that’s what you are and if you’re reallymine, and get your sorry ass cutting with that damn bowsaw,and don’t cry when the steel fangs hang-up and your steady handgrip slips.” Sure enough, that fucker bits him and blood spurts out slow like grandaddy’s piss. And Dad laughing slurs,“you dumb-shit I warned ya didn’t I? Don’t be a pussy and start crying, keep on cutting, don’t be a bitch.” Then his young mindclears, he's thinking his blood is my blood and he ain’t worth a shit. So, he keeps methodically cutting, with his dad yelling, “at a boy…my boy… show me some grit.” The work done, his blood-soaked camo, a clear road to deer camp, his long life ahead. The old man pours them both whisky then a splash on hiscuts. Dad says, “patch it up boy with your tampon and duct tape,” hands him a beer, and says “might make a man of you yet.” Now, all these years later, back in the sick room, as hewaits for beeps fading, knowing he’ll heal the scars of his manhood when he pisses on the old man’s grave.

JD Clapp lives in San Diego, CA. His work has appeared in Cowboy Jamboree, The Dead Mule, Revolution John, Poverty House, and numerous others. In 2023, he was a Pushcart nominee in nonfiction, and had a fictional story selected as a finalist in the Hemingway Shorts, Short Story competition.