Mark Rapacz is a writer and some-time editor from Minnesota. The last time he was gainfully employed he was living in his parents’ basement, waking early each morning to try to eradicate the 50 different species of mosquita residing in the many marshes and wetlands around his hometown. After three long seasons of filling hoppers rigged to the side of a crop-duster chopper and tromping waist-deep through sedge, muck, and razor grass, he left for Korea to teach. He found his life in Korea too filled with the boozes of bad bars and the snot of sick school children to remain, so he went home, vowing never to return. He did so twice more. Once for a girl who needed to see the world, and then again for a wife who hadn’t gotten enough of it. In between his Korea years, Rapacz worked steadily at jobs that never paid enough, complained often, drank too much beer, watched too much television, set aside too many good books, spent too much time in cities, and tried his best to write something that made sense to somebody. Currently, he does all the aforementioned, but he is back in Minnesota, ever-fearing the tenacious mosquita of the marshes, but now before his hand slaps down, smearing blood, he first says to each and every one of them bloodsuckers, “There’s another side to this here land.” He doesn’t plan on doing things any different for a long time.
In the Black Hills we went to a replica of the Flintstone’s town where I sat in Fred’s car. My brother climbed Dino while my sister stuck her face atop Wilma’s neck. I was too… [more]
I. Because it was the thirty-third anniversary of the overthrow of their old government, and because it, too, happened to be a red autumnal moon, and because the calf came out hindquarters first, complicating the… [more]