By Ross Hargreaves


The shot glass is cracked. I drink regardless. Suck lime and spit red. Slowly pull a bloody sliver from my gums. Use my tongue to explore this new canyon. The bartender exclaims, “Oh Shit!” and offers to buy the next round, like tequila will seal the wound and make it not open up even when I slurp cold mush. Earlier, I ran over two little dogs that chased each other out into the street. They went under my car like tumble dry. In my head I can still hear their owner wailing. And a free drink, is a free drink.


Ross Hargreaves lives and writes in Idaho. His work has appeared in Literary Orphans, The James Franco Review, and DogzPlot. (Updated September 2015)


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