A journal of narrative writing.
Last Night in Evansville

She drives to the lip of the Ohio. The mud-eaten boat ramp hides half a mile down in the birches' half-sloughed skin. She's lived with this town for three years, has clutched the northern bank of the river like a southside doublewide. America's family town, the billboards say. They forget the meth lab that blows up once a year or the mass of men who drink cases of Milwaukee's Best for supper— like the one who took her out last summer. Thirty, burnt- out. Couldn't figure out why she moved here for school. City of the blue class and broken-hearted, city of signs that promise a pack of Wildhorse cigarettes for $2.79, city of the shit-out-of-luck. Another mosquito summer, and the swing she pulled from the water one stoned night still straddles the bank. She listens to its hinges scrape together, scratches rust-red flecks from the frame, the chains holding the seat like anchor chains. Even here, in the isolation of cricket psalms, she used to wish herself away. Now a barge moans, a passing phantom in the glass factory's blush.