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Bad Was Good, Is Bad – Dee McInnes

The birds are waiting on frosty fence posts. Marta’s on the uneven path, her cheek resting on the inside of her upper arm, weary of her sideways view of things.

The ground drains her heat and her mouth is dust dry.

The setting sun floods the garden with shafts of tangerine orange, like the glare of stage lights. She remembers her strong soprano soaring. Applause raining down from the gods. Break a leg, they used to say back then.

A black cat steps its way across the grass. Circling. Sniffing the bag of fallen breadcrumbs.

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