The River Lena
Reprinted from Transition Magazine, issue #96, where it was published as The River Lena. Official representative of Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference to Best New American Voices Anthology.
Muzhduk stepped left to put himself in the path of the flying boulder. It was the size and shape of a small woman curled up in a ball, but much heavier, and it came at him like a cannon shot. Muzhduk leaned forward to meet the boulder, knees bent, hoping to absorb the impact with his legs. He staggered backward with the force of the blow, but did not drop the big rock.
The audience erupted with clapping, cheering, and mumbling, and a cloud of yellow butterflies scattered from the noise. His opponent was Hulagu, arguably the strongest Slovak in the tribe, and all six villages were present for the Dull-Boulder Throw. All the Slovaks who lived in the mountains of northeastern Siberia were there, lined up along the edges of the saddle-shaped mountain ridge. Even those so old or sick they knew the trip would kill them. Two had died on the way.
The audience looked at Muzhduk intently. He knew that some of them were wondering whether he would disqualify himself. He hadn’t ducked or moved out of the way, of course, but no one had ever tried to absorb the shock with his legs before. Arms and chest were normal, and he could see Hulagu bite his fat lips wanting to make a charge of dishonor, which would itself be dishonorable.
Continue reading I, Muzhduk (prologue of The Ugly)
Reprinted from the Chicago Quarterly Review (summer 2008)
Do you know where we are?”
“There are no lights. I’ve never seen a city like this.”
“I know where we are.”
Eve pulled on her fingers, one by one, to crack them. Frank drove and she watched the road. When she finished with both hands, she said, “I wish there were people around.”
Continue reading Metropolitan Avenue
Reprinted from Fiction International, issue #38. Winner of PEN/Nob Hill prize for best novel excerpt.
“Keep your legs closed!” the midwife yelled at Ibu. “Don’t you let that baby out!”
But Ibu couldn’t hear the midwife cursing her, threatening to keep the gate closed if Ibu didn’t listen. She was beside herself with pain. The women had not given her any painkillers so that her will would be strong, so she would keep the presence of mind to hold the baby in one more day.
The battle was hopeless. They had tried everything to prevent Ibu from giving birth that day: all morning they’d fed her very young pineapple, bitter pineapple the size of a fist, pineapple after pineapple until she was ready to burst, until it became an almost abortive dose despite the ripeness of the baby. Then they went past that threshold, letting the wind choose the lesser evil. All in vain.
Continue reading Pulling Shadows
Before the Law: a Rebuttal
Reprinted from the Chicago Quarterly Review, winter 2007. It’s a modified excerpt from The Ugly.
Muzhduk walked to the centre of the Quad. Everything was stately, romanesque, the buildings buttressed, cloistered, but varied: three hundred years of red brick architecture around one long rectangle of green grass criss-crossed with narrow, straight asphalt paths, spotted with American Elms someone had sat and calculated the optimal location of each tree, though many were now suffering the yellow wilt of Dutch Elm fungus — and the whole Yard felt carefully spaced and defined, even the sky above marked and divided by branches.
He walked north, past dormitories, libraries, halls, and chapels, past a statue of a man sitting in a large chair (the statue said, “John Harvard, Founder, 1638”), past an old wooden water-pump shaped like the hunched Russian babushkas he’d seen in Anadyr, Yakutsk, and Omyaykon.
Continue reading Before the Law: a Rebuttal
Reprinted from Literary Imagination: The Review of the Association of Literary Scholars and Critics, Vol.7, No.3, Oxford Journals. It is an excerpt of The Ugly.
I stood in the back of a pickup truck. It was a 32, distinguished from a 13 or a 17, although some large mini-vans are also 32s. Thirty-two people arranged with precision into the back of a Toyota pickup, we were on our way from one sandy part of the Sahara to another. The Sahara desert has things other than sand, but the part where we started, the part we traversed, and the part where we hoped to arrive were all sand, a beige, nondescript sort of sand which did not always stay on the ground.
A mother sat on my feet, nursing her daughter, while we bounced over soft little dunes and exposed rock. With her weight as ballast, and with the sharp metal bar corralling the edge of the pickup, I could sleep while standing. In those parts where the acacia was sparse, where I didn’t have to duck.
Continue reading Bureaucracy
List of Alexander Boldizar’s fiction publications, with images, below the fold.
Continue reading Fiction and Short Stories
Rain, in Phantasmagoria
Reprinted from Phantasmagoria (winter 2005).
It is a dark and stormy night. Impossible to tell with certainty where they are; somewhere between New York and Paris. They are driving from New York to Paris. Frank is driving. Eve sits yoga style in the passenger seat of their small white pickup. Full lotus, and the pickup is a longbed, with a shell. The shocks are reinforced to carry heavy loads, but the cab has no seatbelts. The mattress on the long heavy bed, under the leaky white shell, is wet. Eve sits on a floating lotus in the passenger seat, knitting a scarf from a skein of black lopi wool. Icelandic wool, unchanged in one thousand years of isolation. Dual coated, the outer tog has a 50 to 53 spin count, and the undercoat thel a 65 to 70 count. The lopi ewes can be lively, bright, curious, active, shy, flighty, calm, friendly and have excellent personalities. They are not generally fence jumpers or crazy acting. The rams can be sweet, docile, aggressive or protective of their flock. The scarf is meant for Frank. To wrap around Frank’s neck. To keep him warm. It will itch his neck, he knows, but he’ll get used to it. The night has become dark and stormy.
Continue reading Rain