A Bellyful of Sparrow

A Bellyful of Sparrow fiction Terri Shrum Stoor Ph o t o b y Jam es H al l he pain woke him. Sometimes it was a snake of misery, twisting through Larson's guts like it wanted to pop its head out of his chest and say howdy, and sometimes, like this morning, it was a color. Even with his eyes open, everything glowed shiny red and fierce. He heard Steven on the porch and felt the trailer shake with his boot steps when he slammed the front door. Steven leaned over and squeezed his father's shoulders in a rough hug. "Hey, Daddy, how you doing this morning?" The contact was excruciating, but the boy meant well. That is, if you could call a thirty-five-year-old man a boy. In this case you probably could. "You hurting bad?" Larson swore at him as hard as he could for asking such a question, but the bad lungs had his voice, and what came out sounded even to his own ears like nothing more than a grunt. Steven went to the cabinet and came back with three pills in his hand: one of the peach-colored morphine tablets and two Advil. Larson was supposed to have http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png The Missouri Review University of Missouri

A Bellyful of Sparrow

The Missouri Review, Volume 37 (3) – Oct 9, 2014

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Publisher
University of Missouri
Copyright
Copyright © The Curators of the University of Missouri.
ISSN
1548-9930
Publisher site
See Article on Publisher Site

Abstract

fiction Terri Shrum Stoor Ph o t o b y Jam es H al l he pain woke him. Sometimes it was a snake of misery, twisting through Larson's guts like it wanted to pop its head out of his chest and say howdy, and sometimes, like this morning, it was a color. Even with his eyes open, everything glowed shiny red and fierce. He heard Steven on the porch and felt the trailer shake with his boot steps when he slammed the front door. Steven leaned over and squeezed his father's shoulders in a rough hug. "Hey, Daddy, how you doing this morning?" The contact was excruciating, but the boy meant well. That is, if you could call a thirty-five-year-old man a boy. In this case you probably could. "You hurting bad?" Larson swore at him as hard as he could for asking such a question, but the bad lungs had his voice, and what came out sounded even to his own ears like nothing more than a grunt. Steven went to the cabinet and came back with three pills in his hand: one of the peach-colored morphine tablets and two Advil. Larson was supposed to have

Journal

The Missouri ReviewUniversity of Missouri

Published: Oct 9, 2014

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