By Mark Connors
Hank Mullins wakes to silence. Hank is not used to silence. Even the goddamn birds have stopped singin’. There’s no potterin’ or sizzlin’ comin’ from the kitchen. There’s no hissin’ from the bathroom, that sound of sharp summer rain he’d heard every mornin’ for as long as he could remember. There’s no hollerin’ from his daughter: “Where the hell are my shoes, Momma?” There’s no scratchin’ of Bronco’s paws on the old wood floors. No huffin’ or a pantin’. Nothin’.
The only sound is Hank’s laboured breathin’ after too many cigarettes and too many whiskey’s at Cal’s Bar last night. [Read more…] about Hank’s New Song