The Girl With Brown Fur: Tales & Stories
"Amid alarming depictions of household distress and perversion, unusual metamorphoses, and imperiled nature, in addition to the occasional successful get away or alliance, Levine announces the demise of fable and anticipates the cave in of civilization. yet for now, she subtly recognizes that in spite of the fact that deluded, poisoned, and impaired we could be, we are going to proceed to inform and cherish stories and tales as we fight opposed to lies, brutality, and alienation."—Donna Seamen, Bookforum
The population of Stacey Levine's tales try each one of these items and extra, with out extra good fortune than those that have extramarital affairs or those that purchase activities automobiles. fortunately, Levine's tales have a clean loss of admire for reality.—The Believer
Levine's crisp tales equally locate pleasure and transformation as they chase down their fantastical plots. The woman with Brown Fur will not be everyone's cup of tea, however the adventurous will take pleasure in following Levine's breadcrumb trails, no matter if that implies getting somewhat lost.—A.N. Devers, Time Out New York
In her first brief fiction assortment considering My Horse and different Stories, Stacey Levine supplies us twenty-eight new, feral, untamable tales, in myriad modes, from laugh-out-loud humorous, to Kafka-nightmarish, to lyrical, elegiac, and philosophical.
Stacey Levine is the writer of My Horse and different Stories (PEN/West Fiction Award, 1994) and the novels Dra— and Frances Johnson (finalist, Washington country e-book Award, 2005).
Glasses. Problematically, he has all started to have spells during which he feels he doesn't exist. The physician lives within the urban, close to the sanatorium the place he works. yet proof quick metamorphose into stories. Is it occasionally, or as a rule, that he wears the hideous oat-colored Birkenstocks? Does he understand precisely why he has pushed clear of the town, on my own? Even within the voluptuous warmth close to the river, the health practitioner wears a decent, buttoned blue blouse. The sunlight makes his scalp furious, puffy. No rainy towel on.
study the hem of my smock, discovering a capsule well hidden there, and swallowed it, and fell to sleep, dreaming of knives that ran in equipped legions, each one with a brief, exact, Christian identify: Gore, for instance; worry saps one’s energy like not anything else; waking tomorrow, I apprehensive approximately fulfillment, approximately by no means catching up, and approximately dwelling the remainder of my existence within the margins, one of the ranks of the unproductive. i used to be surprised, unaccustomed to refuting the likes of Rolf, yet instead,.
those who're this kind of soiled, bad mess!” 108 Pat surged from his bed room and relocated into the lounge, so he might by no means need to use the steps or see the bad kin back. In weeks, Pat approached the steps. There he observed a slope of filthy, silty soot upon the carpeting, piling round the family’s knees and legs. “They are becoming poorer,” Pat stated. The relatives used to be within the soot, all on palms and knees, bellies down, and upon listening to Pat Smash’s voice, every one lifted a sooty face to.
City’s border with goading cause to acquire all of this; I keep in mind the grip of his hand; i used to be older then; now i'm younger, flying with funds and fiendish energy to the boy and the heart of items, simply because, finally, energy is what we want. i'd torture the guardsmen, wring the necks of all cats, damage conveyor belts, bicycles, the histories of our dead relations and their relatives earlier than them, to accomplish this task—the boy isn't but at liberty, so who's? The idea of crime doesn't galvanize me in.
used to be Sis’s personal fault, Brook reasoned: the older cat was once too wild. Her consistent hiding lower than the furnishings used to be getting tiresome. while Brook ultimately stretched and walked into the lounge, she observed a small, ornamental glass apple damaged at the carpet into sharp chunks. The kitten’s leg and flank have been choked with little bleeding wounds; skinny blood trailed from its nostril because it slept at the flooring. Sis sat within reach, in undeniable view at the mantel, strangely, giving herself a loud bathtub. Sis had an extended gash.