about the author

Adam Marston doesn’t know if he’s a fiction writer or poet. He has piles of words though, like lots of bread crumbs stacked together that look like a full loaf in the right light. They’ve been eaten at DOGZPLOT and Laura Ellen Scott’s VIPs on VSF and are forthcoming at The Northville Review and elimae.

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Adam Marston

There is a musical instrument that sounds exactly like you. Your greatest friend is exceptional with it and you are not. They teach you the basics, but you have terrible cadence. You sound more like it while not playing it and this irony is enough to ruin your friendship. Even as you age, people say how much you remind them of the instrument, its beautiful sound. They ask if you’ve heard of your friend, the composer, who teaches but has gone blind with age. You attend the class under a false name and sit in the farthest row. You watch your friend instruct a song and you speak loudly while they play, keeping your voice indistinguishable from the music. Your friend comments to the class how much better that sounded than before. After, your friend thinks they are alone and plays a piece that sounds like nothing you’ve ever heard. The music sounds like you’re saying I am into your heart / I am into your heart / I am into your heart / though it is gone.

It’s all you can do not to sing.

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