|Dis Location: Stories After the
Dis Location: Stories After the Flood
114 pages, Gutter Press
Dis Location demands oneís complete participation. The writing, impenetrable as it can seem, is crisp and daring: ďHis wife picked up a piece of meat from her plate and tried swallowing it whole. Black rubbed on her face. She wiped her fingers on her red evening dress. The stripes of grease down her front would help the males recognize her as female.Ē
Now imagine 111 more pages. The style of writing generates a sense of shock, and, dare I say, dislocation. This is, presumably, what Quinn intends us to feel. And while itís not an experience that many readers crave, someone, somewhere, may well pick this book out of a discard bin and decide that itís a work of genius.
Chris Tenove, National Post
See review in
I felt the sad, cold drips of his water. He should have been more than he was, dripping wet. Shivering. His teeth chattering.
"What's your name?"
He didn't speak. "John", I said. "John...that's my name."
"John", he said. "John...that's my name." He said it softly. He stared at me. An orange canoe floated by. He dived. I waited for him to surface. But I heard my name instead, my wife on shore, waving her big floppy hat at me.
I placed my things in the waterproof bag and tried to dive where the boy had. But I missed the spot because the raft was always swinging around on its anchored rope. I did a slow crawl into the shallow water. I floated there until my wife grabbed my swim suit and pulled me onto the beach. The hem on her white cotton dress was sticking to her legs.
She pointed to her sandals. "You know how I dislike that feeling of wet sand wedged between my toes."
Elizabeth swam out to the raft. She had never done that before. She tried climbing over the side. She was wedged on top when she saw what I was doing to the boy. How I was trying to crawl inside him. Become him. I was almost there when she interrupted. I was almost back to where I should have been. I grabbed her head and pushed it under the water, wrapping her dyed blond hair tight around my fist. I kept her there. The boy saw what I was doing. I thought he'd try to help her. But he was already gone.
If I ever get out of this northern resort, I will find the boy and kill him too.
(excerpt Water Nymphs short story)