Wrestling by Tom Weller

They all hear the crowd, a whooshing roar, a sound like a train entering a tunnel.

But there is no crowd, just a weed-choked backyard, a chain-link fence chattering when the wind blows, the whooshing roar, the voices of ghosts.

There is no ring announcer, but they all hear him too, voice bright and crackling like a Fourth of July sparkler: “Ladies and gentlemen, it is now time for the main event.” Scrap Boy 1, Scrap Boy 2, Scrap Boy 3. Three backyard haircuts, three bared bird chests, six buggy whip arms, but just one shared heart pumping enough adrenaline to make all three Scrap Boys grow to six feet four inches tall, to inflate their chests like truck tires, to swell their biceps to the size of canned hams. Where one Scrap Boy readies to fight, the other two follow, sure as a grunt follows the grab that sets up a slam.

It starts out pretty, ingrained choreography, the miracle of muscle memory. The tie-up, hands cradling the back of a neck, hands nestled in the crook of another’s elbow, foreheads nearly touching, they could be leaning in to whisper secrets, could be pondering a kiss, the ghost voices ebb, roar becomes a burble.

Scrap Boy 3 is the referee, circles 1 and 2, up on the balls of his feet, eyes alert for foul play, hands clapping because they must do something, releasing energy, generating energy. Adrenaline. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, boys, Scrap Boy 3 says, C’mon. Three Scrap Boys and their single heart bound in one dance.

Scrap Boy 1 and 2 strain against each other, groan like something preparing to snap. The crowd that isn’t there, but is there, the crowd of ghost voices, demands more. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, , 3 says, still circling, circling, circling. C’mon, c’mon, c’mon, the ghost voices demand.

The Scrap Boys won’t remember the moment the tie up is broken, flesh releasing flesh as Scrap Boy 3 backpedals, gives 1 and 2 space, room to work. They will remember what comes next in flashes, storm scenes illuminated by lightning strikes. The Irish whip into the chain link fence. The clothesline coming back. The kick to the gut. The bulldog headlock. The DDT 2 gives to 1. The DDT 1 gives to 2. The sting of chops beating sweat off bare chests. The rush of breath exiting lungs as 1 and 2 take each other to the ground. 3 jumping on top of the pile.

Three Scrap Boys knotted together, an arm around a waist, a neck trapped in a half nelson, legs grapevined, heart pounding like a blacksmith’s hammer, iron on iron. It’s impossible to say where one Scrap Boy ends and another begins. As they strain and tense and pull against each other, with each other, the ghost voices sharpen, become distinct, the voices of fathers departed, the voices of mothers’ broken boyfriends. Fuck you up. Whip your ass. Little pussy. You want another. Give you a reason to cry. The ghost voices of the men the Scrap Boys will become, aren’t sure they want to become, join the chorus. Fuck you up. Whip your ass. Little pussy. You want another. Give you a reason to cry.

The Scrap Boys go on, rolling together in the dirt of a slumping rustbelt town, past ghost voices and future ghost voices blurring together into holy taunt, daring each Scrap Boy not to lose.

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TOM WELLER — Tom is a former factory worker, Peace Corps volunteer, Planned Parenthood sexuality educator, and college writing instructor. His fiction has appeared in Booth, Pidgeonholes, Barrelhouse, and Milk Candy Review, among others. His fiction collection And There Came Forth a Great Fish: Stories was  published by Gateway Literary Press in 2022. He lives in Corpus Christi, Texas, with his wife and his ill-mannered but big-hearted rescue dog, Beans.

Art by SOPHIA EISENBART MACIAS — My paintings explore transformation- the alchemy of transforming the ordinary. I work intuitively, layering paint, paper, and found materials to create interesting compositions that embrace imperfection. My aim for a painting is for it to become a “Proof of Existence,” capturing traces of time, memory, or emotion. Based in Clarksville, Tennessee, I create to preserve fleeting moments and inspire others to find beauty in the imperfect. See my work at artofthebart.net and @seisenbart on Instagram.