Dad twitches in his sleep, afraid he’s really on the reservation. I keep the radio on, too sad and hungry to sleep. If I was lighter and happy faced, someone might pity me, if only a spirit. I rock my little brother as he screams he’s dying. Dad wakes up and tells me to turn up the radio, he’s sick of hearing the truth.
About the author:
Ashlie Allen writes fiction and poetry. She also enjoys photography. Her work has appeared in Atlas and Alice, Juked, Cease Cows and others. Her favorite season is the Fall.