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Work

She never paints herself covered in gold. The crash strips her naked. A sign-painter’s bright spilled dust gilds her . . . .

Disfiguration

 

 

She never paints herself covered in gold. The crash strips her naked. A sign-painter’s bright spilled dust gilds her bloody skin. She doesn’t die. She doesn’t heal. She hurts. She marries four years later at twenty-two, small and frail. He is forty-two, blunt and fat. He warns her he’s a womaniser. Her mother opposes; her father approves: her husband can afford her expensive medical care.

 

She is ambivalent about having a child. She has an abortion. They spend a frozen year in Detroit. Another abortion fails. She reluctantly continues the pregnancy, which ends in a hemorrhage. Lab coats.

 

The industrial and mechanical development of the United States interests her. Assembly lines. The behaviour of the wealthy enrages her. “It is terrifying to see the rich having parties day and night while thousands die of hunger.” Machines.

 

Her paintings develop. The sharing of pain is an essential condition. The Detroit News headlines her interview “Wife of Master Mural Painter Gleefully Dabbles in Works of Art.” Appendectomy, two abortions, amputation of gangrenous toes. Lab coats.

 

The crash strips me naked. A surgeon’s spilled light gilds my bloody skin. I don’t die. I don’t heal. I hurt. I marry five years later at twenty-one, lush and strong. He is forty-one, tall and frail. My father consents; my mother resents: my husband can afford what she herself desires.

 

I am not ambivalent about having a child. I bear one prematurely. We spend two frozen years in Chicago. Another pregnancy ends in a hemorrhage. Lab coats.

 

The industrial and mechanical development of the United States envelops me. Assembly lines. The behaviour of the wealthy amazes me. It is shocking to see the rich having parties day and night while their children die of hunger. My husband sweats money beside me. Machines.

 

My sculptures develop. The sharing of pain is an essential condition. The Los Angeles Times headlines my interview “Wife of Master Financier Enjoys Attempts at Art.” Hysterectomy, lumpectomy, amputation of left breast. Lab coats. 

 

 . . . 

 

Pierced and torn until spent and harmed. Another. Another. Assembly lines.

 

A flawed fitting to shape and cut, a faulty mechanism moving toward a terrible crash. Machines.

 

Spilled fierce light. Blood stuck to bright dust. I don’t exist. I never have.

 

I have nothing to say and I am saying it.

 

Covered in gold.

 

# # #

That night, the father talked to her in bed. “A girl might make a difference,” he said, stripping off her clothes.

“A girl might make a difference,” she said, lying very still.

 
 “Baudelaire's Sister at the Betty Ford”

Your lives happened in pieces: the fights; the divorce; the TV shows; the liquor. The dope. The sex. The hopeless idle days the grownups were at work. The dark rainy days empty houses smothered you. Your metamorphoses advanced. Coarse hair sprouted, everything thickened and burned.

 

Don’t expect me to help. You had money. Parents. Mine lay tangled in unwashed sheets.”

                                              —Finalist,

                                                      Tupelo Quarterly Open Prose Contest

“A Close Shave on Gorky Street”

“Years later, we returned.” Grandmère sighed. “We never should have done so. A grave mistake.” She pinched her cigarette-holder between thumb and forefinger in the old way. “As long as Mother Russia has existed, her children have fled.” Smoke curled like incense and caught in the apple-trees. “Because she destroys those who stay.” 


“The Shield of the Norns”

A woman, sometimes traveling by car but more importantly by dragon-ship, tries to become a literal goddess—and her life implodes to a core of madness and violence.

        —Stephen Corey, editor, The Georgia Review

“Of course, Grice is long gone, lived by the sword and died by the shank; probably didn’t make it to Valhalla
to drink with the honored dead. Grice was excitable. Me, I’m a brooder. I take things slow and careful.”

In Pursuit of the Pig

The staff of the Iowa Review chose this excerpt from the novel—only partly for the piglet.

Heart Trouble is the story of a family disinherited by history and scarred by radical politics, and also the story of a good father, a man who learns how to lose but never forgets how to love.

A finalist for the James Fellowship for the Novel, Heart Trouble is currently seeking a publisher.

“Absence Artist”

From Diagram.2, Del Sol Press, 2006
The second print anthology—work from issues 3.1 to 4.6 that we particularly loved.—Ander Monson, editor

 

A prizewinning story from the groundbreaking online journal The Diagram.
Literary experiment built on fiction and silence, a ghost-story whose ghost's own provenance is clouded.

Nominee, Best American Nonrequired Reading.
Twice chosen for Web del Sol's eScene (Best of the Zines).

“A Period of Silence”

From Sex & Chocolate, Paycock Press, 2006
Deirdra McAfee’s story crosses the color-line and plays cancer and the unknown against loss and longing.
—Richard Peabody, editor, Gargoyle

Now, from the people who brought you Mondo Barbie and Kiss the Sky, a story that offers two essentials of life
on earth, and long-haul love besides.

“Age of Iron”

Winner, 2004 STYLE Fiction Prize

“It is the old knowledge, what you were before the fire of feeling, that stays with you in all its terrible detail,
calm, ordinary, beautiful, ineluctable. An old joke, a dance-step, a vivid dream, a lie.”