Creative contributions
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Limps, really. Drops onto the first stool, starts rubbing her bare blistered feet. She nods upwards once to the bartender the way drunks do to signal whatever’s cheap. I gave up my voice you know–fought a bitch to get it back. And now it hurts to stand. Every step is glass. We let her talk.
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How to Be Sad If you listen without language, you may hear my grandfather playing Brahms on the cello, grunting every now and then with the effort of an old man soon to die. He played for me that spring I lay sick with pneumonia. I was nine and lonely for my mothership, her planets
Agape Editions 