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Cal Massey has been writing short fiction the last four years, “conditioning my body to less and less sleep with each 2 a.m. that passes awake.” By day, he’s a media relations manager for an ITT company in Palm Coast, Florida.
He is a Southern suburban white boy now all grown-up, born too late for Vietnam and not late enough for high-yield T-bills, so he is stuck somewhere, an underground movement of one. That suits him fine.
October 1988Has something we published moved you? Fired you up? Did we miss the mark? We’d love to hear about it.
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