Interstate Scene 13: A jumbotron flashed above an overpass, and I held my breath.
A laugh track bled through the walls while highway static filled the dark.
The action unfolds in hotel rooms and hallways, where the hum of the ice machine veers from reassuring to sinister.
Interstate Scene 12: Munching a cold french fry, I counted the logos flying around my head.
Ghost-wise, I’m not sure where to go after Shirley Jackson. Any recommendations for novels that deal with hauntings would be much appreciated.
Interstate Scene 11: Strange how the noise in my head can only be soothed by more noise.
Berenice Abbott’s portrait of a magnetic field reminds me of fireworks beneath the eyelids.
