Wreckage of Reason: XXperimental Prose by Contemporary Women Writers
Innovative writing by 39 women writers, including Lidia Yuknavitch, LilyGrace, Laurie Foos, Kass Fleisher, Barbara Baer, Cynthia Reeves, Lauren Schiffman Karen Lillis, Megan Milks, Lyn Halper, Fanny Howe, Suki Wessling, Jessica Treat, Shelley Jackson, Laynie Browne, Roni Natov, Cris Mazza, Elizabeth Block, Geri DeLuca, Alicita Rodriguez, Gwen Hart, Masha Tupitsyn, Martha King, Sarah White, Nina Shope, Carmen Firan, Rosebud Ben-Oni, Anna Mockler, Sandra Miller, E.C. Bachner, Tsipi Keller, Summer Brenner, Amina Cain, Karen Brennan, Aimee Parkison, Lily Hoang, Lynda Schor, Danielle Dutton, Danielle Alexander, Debra Di Blasi, and Alexandra Chasin. -- In this diverse and comprehensive volume, the writers have manipulated traditional ways of storytelling, language, and plot, to express new and distinct ways of seeing and experiencing the world. Narrative form is subverted, provocative subject matter explored, and language takes on a scatological form to depict an authentic human experience that makes reading a truly participatory act. At the conclusion of each work, the contributor has composed a few impressions sharing what inspired her to tell that particular story.
it will happen, like magic, the words will come, his voice will come, and he will come. I tell him things I have never told anyone. I give him the words for the way that I feel about him, about touching him, and desiring him that I only imagined I would be able to do. I touch him the way I have never touched anyone, and his touch is something I never allowed myself to imagine. He seems to understand my imagination, the places I can go with it, the things I am capable of doing with my senses, and
see only in shadows. “Wait for me here,” Audrey said, and I nodded, slipping on my sunglasses and pulling the hat low down over my brow. She did not look back at me as she drew the blue girl close to her side, her arm about the bony waist, and lumbered toward the grove of trees in the distance. I saw Audrey limping from the feel of the gravel stabbing at the bottoms of her bare feet, and I leaned out the window, wanting to call to her to take her shoes, that her feet would be torn at the soles,
hungry just shrugged off, there being no need to learn the difference at this late date and rough to compute anyhow from two thousand foot up in the air and a rocketing and a bucketing Look along that stream there’s a half-dozen and the copter pilots’d shrug and steer and herd those steers toward the holding pens Every pen designed to the specifications of the autistic genius who knew what’d keep cattle calm at close quarters of the holding pens and down the narrow aisles to the trucks that’d
haul them to the slaughterhouses and even inside the slaughterhouses there was for the last time attention paid to keeping the cattle calm — never been nothing on this scale before and never would be again, the owners told the slaughterers, bought special T-shirts that said “I Survived the One Big Barbecue” in all the colors of the rainbow and every one of them extra-large as one neck after another was raised gentle and stroked gentle and sliced gentle with a sharp sharp blade hardly felt a
at a motel, his choice, and I stopped sending words. I shoved things in a bag and left. I took my scotch and ginger ale with me, my radio, and CDs. I sent him the room number, and I waited. I believed he would come, and when I write those words, I think lie. I did not think he would come. I did it so that he would not come. I never turned the heat on in the room. I never folded back the sheets. I only turned on the bathroom light and left the door cracked, just enough light so that I did not have