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Every morning Richard Chan sat down to a plate brimming with sausages and beet slices and a 1 liter jug of Turkish coffee. He ate while reading the newspaper. As he read, his complexion grew more and more mottled and his breathing heavier.
The bus screeched to a halt in front of Hambre Town Hall. “End of the line, folks,” announced the driver, flinging open the entry door. Lucy uncoiled from her seat, groaned and stretched. Her back crackled and popped as she stood up, releasing the tension of 23 hours folded into four different bus seats. She shouldered her pack and trooped down the aisle, giving the driver a bleary nod before tripping down the steps.
A sudden car trip in the dark.
Your blue hands
curled in the coffin.
Why I love telling stories
I spent many hours of my childhood perched in trees and sprawled in sunny hallways lost in the pages of a book. In the evenings, my family gathered in the living room to listen to my dad read stories to us, ranging from The Lord of the Rings to Little Britches. Those were some of my favorite moments growing up.
Stories inspired me to be braver, to try new things, and to put myself in others’ shoes. When I moved far away from home, stories helped me connect to the people and places I encountered.