There was no heat in winter. Feasts were potato soup dinners. Cooking fuel was rare. Raw potatoes were fare otherwise. “I was always hungry. Not for dinner hungry either.” Pop, an orphan, always starved. School had heat. An education too. Heat’s why mother went. I am their child. A Baby Boomer. I got three meals. Gas furnaces. TV. A transistor radio. The only love they knew.
STEVE PRUSKY is a transplanted Detroiter who now lives, works and writes in Las Vegas. He attended Northern Michigan University in the late sixties. After that he was in the Navy during the Vietnam War. After that he attended the University of Wisconsin–Milwaukee. His work has recently appeared in Foundling Review, The Legendary, Apparatus Magazine and Flash Fiction Offensive.