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Harrison Scott Key

Harrison Scott Key lives in Savannah, Georgia, and teaches at the Savannah College of Art and Design. 

Articles by Harrison Scott Key

College Football Fables Thumbnail

College Football Fables

A black bear brought his cubs to his alma mater for a home game, and the cool autumn day was a tonic to his soul, despite the fact that a drunken, redneck ferret a few rows up kept screaming obscenities throughout the game, making remarks about the coach and the coach's female relatives that could not be repeated in the presence of a minister.
The Boy Who Got Stuck in a Tree: Part II Thumbnail

The Boy Who Got Stuck in a Tree: Part II

We’d both attended a hunter’s safety course that summer, mandated by law. Pop and Bird were nonplussed. What could some game warden with a B.S. in wildlife management teach us about the sporting life? It was an insult. Not to me. I was curious as to what other men might teach me, particularly men who may have written books on such matters, or at least men who had read those books, or perhaps any book.
The Boy Who Got Stuck in a Tree: Part I Thumbnail

The Boy Who Got Stuck in a Tree: Part I

One thing I love to do during the holidays is sit around and tell stories with family. It’s just such a good way to remind myself of why I love them, and why I live in another state. We told a lot of stories this past Thanksgiving, my father and me sitting at the table over breakfast, remembering what it was like back then, when I was so small and full of potential, and he was so large and full of ideas about how to kill things.


People get weird about school. When you’re a kid, you go where you’re told. But when you’re a parent, you care, because your choice will say a lot about you, and what god you love, and how comfortable you are with your children having friends who have witnessed a murder or know what a bail bondsman is.
ISSUE 81: Fifty Shades of Greyhound Thumbnail

ISSUE 81: Fifty Shades of Greyhound

On Friday, May 12, 1995, I stepped onto a bus in Jackson, Mississippi, bound for West Yellowstone, Montana. The journey would take four days, with no stops for anything but gas and cigarettes and the occasional disemboweling of one passenger by another. When I said goodbye, my father, who only embraces things when he is trying to kill them, hugged me. It was his way of saying: Your mother thinks you might die.
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