Holy Like That | Barbara Harroun

Joanne takes one look at me and saunters to the juice fridge. She hands me a cold V-8. She doesn’t say anything, just gives me her look; part-disappointed, part-pissed, part-what-are-you-doing-with-your life.

“What?” I mumble. It’s a hospital kitchen, so it smells like bacon, sausage, oatmeal, hard-boiled eggs, fried hash browns, corn-fritters and bleach water. Normally comforting and known smells, homey even, but sweet Jesus, not today. I drink the V-8 in one violent toss, and struggle to keep it down.

“Come on,” Joanne says, “I’ve got Tylenol. Try not to breathe on the customers. You smell like vodka walking.” Continue reading “Holy Like That | Barbara Harroun”

Migration | Barbara Harroun

I drove across the Wabash River to my friend Lesha’s attic apartment. It must have been April or early May. It was midafternoon, and the plan was to get stoned with her next-door neighbor and then drive to Jasper-Pulaski Fish & Wildlife Area to watch the migrating Sand Hill Cranes.  Our first year of graduate school was coming to a close.

Lesha was a poet. I was enthralled with short fiction, but both of us were burnt out and missing home. We were in search of wonder, hence passing a bowl. We had to do so quickly before another friend joined us. This friend was smart and artistic, but also straight-laced and raised by deeply religious parents. Continue reading “Migration | Barbara Harroun”