Ironclad Surf Origins
Oxy-acetylene spewed between my father’s teeth when he spoke. His pink welding cap’s brim turned backward poking out of the back of his protective black mask. Rod struck iron and an arc hot as the sun spouted up. Torrents of sparks like salamander tears. He drew the bead with love, my father. I played the floor is lava and other games while I ran around the shop. I had favorite places. There was...