Saturday, February 25, 2012

Untitled Excerpt by Linda Franklin

It is quiet at the river, except for the dogs. She walks, bent over like a gleaner,
plucking bits of broken glass from the sand or the water. She has a knack, perhaps
it is a talent, for seeing the particular shade of brown that is a small shard from
the shoulder or neck of a beer bottle, or for spotting a small piece of a plate or cup
amongst the small rocks. She feels the blood rush to her head, she mutters to
herself “Goddam people, broken glass, so much ... , goddam people.” She feels
terrible today. Everything seems to break.

Linda will be performing her work at WORMS on February 28.

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