foundlings-novel

[foundlings-novel]

0

There is an insatiable yearning that comes with growing up. With boyhood and all the mud that cakes to your skin with it. It asks for recognition and bee-lining in a way that  boys so rarely get. They hide their earnest curiosity and their disarming vulnerability beneath layers of bravado and sly posturing that shows clear on stage, the tragicomic theater of youth. 

Breathing in a space of heavy muddled air, begging to be inhaled. They stand there, steadfast, taking it all in, then, they are pushed from the platform of observation and are forced to face the infinite, yet finite potential of their life as an acrobat swinging from the trapeze of awkwardness to a high beam of bravado, forever teetering on the precipice of self-discovery, all while the world watches on.

They land and forget to bend their knees and find themselves lost again in the labyrinth of feeling that they refuse to see, borne back ceaselessly against the current of what’s to come, no guiding light in sight. 

And then there’s more. There’s the kids who find the same kind of tumult in the way of their trajectory forward, and they breathe and stutter and push through their lungs collapsing. Sometimes they find themselves too, on the way through the darkness and they learn what they need. 

They see themselves as something else and grow to fill the shape they’ve always been meant to take, rather than fighting the mold fit around them by force. So they begin to shape their sides like clay, and draw a needle back with the fluids that are sure to change them. 

In the sterile ambiance of their bedroom, their bathroom, their quiet space, they pull and breathe and embark on the starkly intimate ritual of injecting testosterone into their tummy, or their thighs. Pulling back the skin and squeezing, fighting to keep it all in. The syringe, a surreal implement of transformation, piercing the flesh ushering in a chemical metamorphosis that blurs the lines between who they were and who they are. Who they have come to be. 

Drawing the needle back once more, there is release and a tiny drop of blood spills out with a hint of clear, viscous liquid that spins new stories with each passing week. Encouraging the dance of the hormones in their blood, those minuscule marionettes writing a new story with every step along the way. 

Each pinch, a reminder that there is power in the self and that all it takes is a small tug to begin unraveling the tapestry that is there everyday. That it only takes a little bit of liquid to further sculpt their identity into what they want it to be. To make change in a world evermore characterized by the collision of the mundane and the profound, where the quest for authenticity collides with the strange paradox that is self-creation. 

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[foundlings-novel]

Who Am I?

3/7/24

Foundlings (working title) was born as a collection of short stories about the people of a small town in Central West Virginia. Then, it grew into a novel, growing endlessly, revealing a lush world and the sickness creeping through it, in the skeleton of that first town and its woods. Before I knew it, it had become something more, breathing on its own. Opening its eyes towards the sun. Now, it’s all that and more. A story that is living and breathing and longing.

By using this blog to facilitate a sort of “first printing” of this story, I see the opportunity to deliver, in the most accessible way possible, the ephemeral experience of this story to near its fullest extent. I also see the chance to create and foster community around a story about stories and gender and horror that is breaking its way out of my fragile, crumbling skull. 

This story also feels naturally suited to a blog, as the importance of the archive, both in general and in relation to the story, presents as a primary theme in much of my work and my practice. The core of this story is its words, but it’s body is made of so much more.

I’m so happy to have you along for the ride. Thanks <3 -OG

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[foundlings-novel]

the GoMart

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