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The digital version of Bangs Zine #9

Here’s the truth: almost everyone has a father story. Some of us were raised by ghosts, others by giants. Some were loved within limits, some adored and then abandoned. And yes, some of us found that “Daddy” wasn’t just a parent, but a name that slipped into the language of love and power (sometimes playfully, sometimes painfully). The word itself has become a mirror, reflecting what we crave, what we fear, and what we’ve been taught to want.   “Daddy Issues” is one of those

#10. Velcro? What a ripoff! #9. I love my furniture. My recliner and I go way back. #8. That car seems nice, but the muffler looks exhausted. #7. Why do cows have hooves instead of feet? Because they lactose. #6. Waiter: Do you want a box for leftovers? Dad: No, but I’ll wrestle you for them. #5. Why do bicycles lay on their side? They are two-tired. #4. I’m terrified of elevators, so I’m going to start taking steps to avoid them. #3. (follow up) I love jokes about el

How difficult it is putting this to words when it's, indeed, mostly a vibe. But here goes my humble attempt. Rex Harrison, the British actor of a bygone era, who embodied some of the most iconic roles of his time, immediately comes to mind when I think of dad/father/daddy/patriarch. Perhaps this signals that there may be some things unresolved in my personal life, but, choosing not to be too introspective, as therapy is costly, and I have a laundry list of things to work thro

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Allison Bothley is a writer and recovering MFA (The New School) who lives in Orangeville, Ontario. Her work has appeared in  The Globe and Mail, White Wall Review, Sad Girl Diaries, Literary Review of Canada,  and elsewhere. She is the creator and publisher of  Bangs Zine , an independent space hot for big feelings, emerging writers, and lazy Sunday readers. @allisonbothleywrites

TWO SPARROWS IN A HURRICANE It was warm for October and I waited for the water like I wait for my father – breath in a cage and fingers crossed behind my back. But he doesn’t come, no matter the years I wait. I watched as the sky turned the colour of an old wound, thick and purple and just out of reach. I knew the rain was coming, fresh as my shame that even fathers don’t stay and when the creek rose, the water spread like a secret until everything tasted like mud. This town

The music and movies and games that I love, they came from my dad with a gentle nudge. The joy that you feel at that first Christmas snow? That is, in essence, my sweet daddy-o. Ever the jokester and laughing galore, he is the one who I most adore. We swam and we sang and we played all day,but as I got older, he started to fray. His knees became sore, his eyes a bit dim—so different from when I was little with him. He worked and he slept, wore a quiet disguise,while teenage d

His name became mine, though he never agreed. With unfamiliar eyes, the deception cut deep. A fictitious father, gone without a trace. He was not mine, to have, or keep close. He brought me home, and called me his own. A kind, quiet man, steady and strong. The father I cherished, for a moment in time. But storms came too early, and swept him away. A stranger appeared, from trenches so deep. No room was granted, for this blemish to linger. Bound by blood, this father of mine.

Pall Malls, Newport Lights - Resentful daggers shot from his glare; Seething scowl, gaping nares, “Not in your image, much less God’s.” Pierced skin, tattered jeans- External clues to her mind, he chastised. Rolled leaves and smoke, he despised: “You’re killing my image!” She’s fifteen, he’s older, She’s oblivious to her natural game. Perceived threat, she ran home to exclaim: “Kicked him in the nards, image be damned! Marlboro smooth, delta nine- Nuance required if he needs

In circles like mine, in the circles of women, and the spirals of time we talk about the mother wound, I look down and see the place that held the cord that held me to her – sure, there’s a healed-up wound: belly button bare on my body. but who talks of the wound of the father, where is it to be seen? the mark on a paper when a bored technician compared the dna? paternity confirmed. where does that live on me? It’s not on – it’s in – all the way inside. the mark on the spiral