Inside The Mountain. The old house is more neglected than I’d imagined, veranda hanging off the front, stairs

falling away with rot. I use a knee to test the wood and then pull myself up. No doorknob so I

push, palm flat on the peeling paint. The door opens enough to get a shoulder in and becomes

wedged. Edging in sideways, plastic crinkles under my foot. The air is solid. With the door

closed behind me there is just enough room to stand. The weight of the hoard presses down

on me and I see no path through the garbage: bags, boxes, paper and muck.


Transportation Press will soon be announcing our publishing program for 2018-2019. In the meantime, we are posting anonymous quotes from novels we like. The first person to pick the novel will receive a free copy of one of our publications. Drop us a line.

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