Amber Baird, Author

Grandma came home richer that night with rainbow bingo dauber speckled arms, purple and green and red and blue smudges from wrist to elbow, and when we came into unexpected money we always went to Brown Cow, the barbecue and steak place by the university, to celebrate. 

Both of my grandparents let cigarettes burn in the cow-shaped ashtray on the table and I coughed when ordering my food, Hungarian cabbage rolls which I would pick the rice and meat out of, leaving the cabbage leaves. Grandma let me get away with it if I had a side salad. Mom always said they spoiled me, but she had no say about that now. 

Read more @ PULP LIT MAG, Issue 1, page 129