At the Edge of the Damage Zone

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.