About the Author
Stripe-tailed with downy head plumage, amphibian up to ankles truncated by knicker flannel, the Reorganized Latter Day Saint kind, she writes with either claw each time the thunder comes. They published her without knowledge—just the way she prefers. You won’t catch her ass on a video or an Insta-selfie. Self-taught violinist in a Columbian cave covered in vines, blooming with bats. Finger painter. Multi-talented muckraker, pie shaker. Titanium tempered. Fudger of bios. Paris Review couldn’t resist her fakery. Ploughshares published her while fucking up that big contest. So many tsunamis not to surf, but the sun beats fuchsia as editors bumble fuck like chicken knuckles through slush piles. She writes without eyes, with her feet and teeth gnashing. Call her beguiling, profound, it, un-locatable—just not “him.” Yes, there are manuscripts. And phone numbers. And lovers. More than she can count, some of them pretend (which is better). And oh, the writing. Somewhere in another country, an editor peels open the envelope, and red sand streams onto the desk, forming an oblong spiral—a publishable one.
(I know this wasn’t on the final prompt list, but, hey, I wrote something). Thanks Benjamin. This all looks like great fun. More later.