Our last argument went on for 80 miles. We were on I-55 headed for St. Louis. I kept not knowing what it was about. “Babies,” you said. “Babies,” I said. “What babies?” Finally you got out and hitched a ride back to Springfield. Where we’d pulled off the road, I sagged against the shallow guardrail, watching 18-wheelers plow through their own turbulence. Crushed hubcaps jittered in the breakdown lane; lighter objects levitated. Once, a weather-bleached doll’s head rolled to my feet. Pale lips parodied an orifice, a single cracked eye stared up into the unutterable strangeness of the empty sky.


Steven Levery is from Queens, New York, but is currently employed by the University of Copenhagen. His photos, fictions, and random sociopathic jottings appear semi-regularly in print and the web.

Photo credit: David Vernon

One Response to “Interstate”

  1. Bridey Ehlers says:

    Fantastic story! Publish more of his work.

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