Bulletproof glass, seediness, and the crawl of the Cthulu.
I keep this one in my wallet.
Ohio. Sunset: 7:01pm. When I stepped outside this morning, I saw my breath—the first frost of the season.
I stood in line at the Gas ‘n Go behind a man with a pistol tucked into the elastic waistband of his sweatpants.
Interstate Scene 14: “He thought it was a Civil War ghost,” she said. “But I didn’t start believing in ghosts until a few weeks ago.”
It’s the first of October, and I give praise for proper autumn at last. Deeper nights. Sharper weather. There’s room in the air to think.
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.
Today I learned that Cheez-Its were invented in Ohio. There’s magic here. There’s also magic in a fresh notebook.
The Fifth Child digs into the muck of living beyond the bounds of time, consensus, and normalcy. The novel’s crisis is simple; its implications are not.
