Alaska Vane

About

I found her in the foothills; a town under steeple. Billboards screaming hellfire and suicide hotlines. More street-preachers than stoplights, all of it enveloped in the dismal dust of coal country and neglect. A child of the river, in white dresses and cheap nail varnish, raised in Biblical standards and shotgun parameters. She burned for the road- and I saw that in her. So I plucked her from her nest of barbed-wire and cotton to thrust her into my infinity of midnight drives and crime, my intoxicating world of switchblades and chrome. If you pluck a pristine dandelion from the dust and show it the unyielding wind, are you a killer? Are you a savior? My story is a guilty one, and I suppose you are my jury. But if you could have seen her- and you will- you’d understand.

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