Nympholepsy

::selections from the novella::
finalist for the 2017 Tarpaulin Sky Book Prize

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::Alraune::

 

We drew the watchers on threads, throat-wound, into heavy rooms. An of course or my
darlings, a yes that takes and lays the fractured parts of them on the floor and kisses
every piece. But they are clean and scared and forget they asked for this.

Little, white eggs, you’ve forgotten how to see. To make yourself disappear with half-hid
staples in the fabric, dollar-store stickers unpeeled from glass candles, everyone
screaming yes.

I am making sound and a space for that, and I love it. Or I love the sounds when we all
re-shape, splay on the stairs, when a crowd is too much so we drink and never have to
clean up. The stairs that press into our backs in a way that we ask for.

The hive and I are vying with each other, for our rules to the game and our particular part
of the forest of liars.


 

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