https://soundcloud.com/americanshortfiction/daisy-johnson-a-bruise-the-shape-and-size-of-a-door-handle When Salma was nine her mother died and she went to live with the father she knew only through birthday phone calls and from her mother’s steel-lined phraseology—he was a bitch on heat; a fucking rabid, no-cock-and-balled pug with more horn than a wolfhound. They stood in the hallway and looked at one another. Pick a room, any room, he said. She took the attic as if it were a … [Read more...] about A Bruise the Size and Shape of a Door Handle