Fiction | September 28, 2020
On the Western Bride
Bruce McKay
I’d been pinheading on a fishing boat called the Western Bride—scrubbing and prepping so I could fish for free—and that winter I’d made deckhand. This was when I was living in a cousin’s apartment on Adams in Huntington Beach, sleeping in the front room on the understanding that I went out and did my business and didn’t bother anybody with my problems.
If you are a student, faculty member, or staff member at an institution whose library subscribes to Project Muse, you can read this piece and the full archives of the Missouri Review for free. Check this list to see if your library is a Project Muse subscriber.
Want to read more?
Subscribe TodaySEE THE ISSUE
SUGGESTED CONTENT
Fiction
Dec 11 2020
Murphy, Murphy
Murphy, Murphy One of my names is Cece. It has many iterations. When scolded, Cecelia. At my worst, Cecelia Rose. In bed, I am named to the rhythm of my… read more
Fiction
Dec 11 2020
Not All That White
Not All That White Everyone on the raising gang notices when the journeyman connector, Joseph Bogoslavsky, reaches into his fifty-pound leather tool belt for four massive bolts and then sinks… read more
Fiction
Dec 11 2020
Way Back, Well Before My Divorce
Way Back, Well before My Divorce There was this other thing that happened. Or really two things bundled. While visiting my then girlfriend’s older sister in New York City, I… read more