Holy smokes! Nephew, an exciting new imprint of Mud Luscious Press, has announced its first title: Darby Larson’s The Iguana Complex, “a wonder of negation & meta-narrative, a mountain of little steps walking in circles.” Nephew publishes raw & aggressive pocket-sized titles in limited-editions of 150 copies or for a sales period of three months, whichever comes first. There will be no subsequent editions (Translation: get in on this bad-ass action now! Only $10. And what a stunning cover).
Larson has had short fiction published recently at The Collagist, Everyday Genius, Caketrain, & New York Tyrant. He is also the editor of Abjective.
Here’s a little somthing to whet the appetite:
They are to each other after and on the flower near the crackling fire next to each other but when she looks she’s no longer looks at him. Looks at him. She’s not there looks at him. No longer on, she’s not there, the lone floor of Freeman’s living room and/or the opera stage where the deafening noise, rather, from our crowd’s spoke-woken her. She must have passed, missed, slipped out, slipped, must have hurled herself in the path of a hurled pointy hat. The crowd’s on their endingly feet singing neverendingly songs over and over, the song Cassandra beguttoned a day or so ago.
Oh Reuben, oh Reuben, offstage jumping: keep it going, yes yes, keep singing, keep it going. But she’s jumped and banged and heaven’s sake and sang enough for heaven’s sake, was just pointed-hat-hurled on stage for heaven’s sake, hurled in the pointed hurled hat with a head.
The crowd sobers when the loss of their leader is lost from the strange of the onstage. They file, the crowd, out of our theater seats whistling like a bird-caller army in their cars, near their dinners, at their desserts, within dreams, out from deserts, under oceans, sleepwalking-whistling to kitchens preparing two egg in the morning salad sandwiches.
Freeman prepares himself and his components, the components of the egg salad sandwich at two in the morning with his kitchen around him, tea kettle whistling. Whistling.
No longer whistling. Can you barely? You’ll need to look closer: Cassandra fashioning at Freeman’s kitchen table, the square one, eyes open, a mug of tea, ghost roses parading and the donkey playing a cello.