fwriction

I’m going to admit this freely: I have a bit of a man-crush on Alan Heathcock. His writing scratches me right where I itch, and I cannot wait to get my hands on VOLT, Heathcock’s collection of short stories, due for release by Graywolf Press in March. I think you should do the same.

In the meantime, enjoy this story from the Virginia Quarterly Review, then tell the author just how much he rocks.

The oak towered above her. She shone her light up into it, over the girl’s exposed ribs, her dangling arms, and between her buds of breasts curved a swag of dried blood, dripped from where the rope had torn the skin of her neck. Helen turned on her side and retched. Vomit steamed in the dirt. She took clean snow into her mouth and caught her breath. She stood and unsnapped the latch over her pistol, and approached the darkness beneath the boughs.