Ah, here’s something brand new for you I’ve been meaning to share, now up at New World Writing. The beginning:
Built on the catacombs of old zinc mines, the tornado licked the ribs of this town clean. Look at this, my grandmother says, her lawn pocked, pitted. It was level before. The low heel of her sandal twists in a divot. She twines her arm with mine. Overhead, ends of ribboned VHS tape trail from a knot in the gum tree stripped down to crucifix limbs, its rustle whisper thin. The birds are gone. The hum of electrical wires, silenced. Pulp of pulverized homes dries on the truck-bed, blue and white Ford, ’71, pushed out of its ruts just so. This town is a turned-out coat.
The rest: here.