by Michael Chin

I drank whiskey until the world moved faster than I could
keep up with, each turn of my head fuzzier, taking longer
to refocus.  I told a series of lies, each falser than the one
before it, like, “I hate you,” like “I’m not drunk,” like
“I don’t love you anymore.”  An hour later, in my car,
I took a wrong turn and wound up driving over railroad tracks,
a good tenth-of-a-mile before a small mercy
befell me, and there was a road again to turn off on,
to head home, to survive the dark until morning.


Michael Chin was born and raised in Utica, New York, and is
currently an MFA candidate in creative writing at Oregon State
University.  He won the 2014 Jim Knudsen Editor’s Prize for
fiction from the University of New Orleans and has previously
published or has work forthcoming in
The Normal School, Bayou
, Weave Magazine, The Rappahannock Review, The
Pacific Review
, and other literary journals.  More information is
available on his

On “Whiskey Weary”:
I wrote this prose poem as a reflection on nights in my twenties
when I drank too much whiskey and found myself less and less
celebratory, more and more tired and sad.  The poem does not
so much capture any single event as the way that these nights
blend together in my memory with particular spikes of narrowly
avoided catastrophe.  I first drafted it amidst a series of prose
poems I worked on this past winter when I was experimenting
with the form and aiming to crystallize the heart of specific
periods or moments in my life.   

Previous page  Apple Valley Review, Spring 2016  Next page
Apple Valley Review:
A Journal of Contemporary

ISSN 1931-3888

Volume 11, Number 1
(Spring 2016)

Copyright © 2016
by Leah Browning, Editor.  

All future rights to material
published in the
Valley Review
are retained
by the individual authors
and artists.