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Last updateTue, 06 Aug 2013 2am

Back You are here: Home Stories Beau Johnson
Beau Johnson

Beau Johnson

Beau Johnson lives in Canada with his Canadian wife.  She is very understanding and allows him to write even though they have three small monsters who do their very best at keeping them on the go.  Unfortunately, all three boys have inherited their father's hair--poor kids.  It will now be a much tougher life.  Only once, over at the Carnage Conservatory, Beau continues his dream of being published.

Wednesday, 07 August 2013 23:58


I wanted her dead, yes, okay, and by my own hand---that they, my hands, were complicit.

Wasn’t the wisest decision now that I look back, but what can you do when love applies a pressure so hard it begins running towards hate? I thought the answer had been nothing, as in sit back and eat the shit you deserve you pathetic jag-off---as if the fault were mine alone. I was wrong, however, and all it took was a woman’s laugh to set me free.

Tuesday, 29 May 2012 01:15

Tomorrow, Now

Five days before it happens my nephew says this: “My Dad says I should tell you to go to church; if you don’t you’ll go to hell.” And that pretty much summed up Rick; that my brother would come at me from all angles because he knew it was the only chance he had at saving me. They’re dead now, both he and my nephew, and it kills me knowing I could not save them the only way I knew how.

Monday, 12 December 2011 17:26

My Father's Eye

Do you love? Can you? Those are the questions.

My father taught me many things growing up. I could list them, but what’s the point? He did his job; made me the man I am today. It is how he lost his eye I wish to talk about. How he lost it, yes, but more importantly, why.

Sunday, 18 September 2011 20:02


Wincing, you prepare, and as the car swerves hard onto the pavement your back is jabbed by the pointy end of the tire iron which is wedged and leaning at an improbable angle.  It is not the first time this has happened.  Cursing, you can only hope the driver will ensure it is the last.  In the dark you struggle to free your hands against the duct tape they have wrapped around the wrists you find behind your back.  It never gives, not an inch, but still you believe the strength will come.  Drenched, your hair falls into your eyes, lays matted to your forehead.  It is hot in here, a furnace, but you know the majority of the heat is more from you and the situation you have gotten yourself into; that this, the trunk, is no more than the place before the place.