The next Weekly Rumpus features fiction from Amaris Ketcham. Here’s an excerpt:
We rode in silence, drinking and looking past our reflections out the windows. It occurred to me that she never asked where I was headed, but I was feeling drunk and warm and didn’t care. It was nice going somewhere without walking, as if we were teleporting through time and space. Guardrails unrolled along the road. Brief portions of the forest shined in the headlights, disappeared behind us. Everything was closer than it appeared. The moon waned. Shadows crossed shadows.
Quite some time passed. I grew drowsy and wondered where we were. She checked the mirrors too often. It was too late; nothing would be behind us. The white lines of the highway blinked as we drove over them.
Amaris Ketcham a regular contributor to the arts and literature blog Bark. Her work has been published in Glassworks, the Los Angeles Review, the Rio Grande Review, Sacred Fire, and the Utne Reader.
