By Sandra Malone
Sandra has stuffed her publication with hats of each measurement and form. Hats formed like tarts, watermelon, beehives, bees. a bobbin, greens, roses, bottles, and, different nice designs embellish cutouts, plaques, tags, water cans, a nightlight, handbags, packing containers, indicators, and, extra. comprises easy-to-follow directions and styles. Acrylic.
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Additional info for Girls, Girls, Girls
47 lauren kelly “But I can’t walk downstairs to the door? ” “Yes. ” I hated the way the nurse smiled at me to humor me. I wanted to slap her face, a ﬂame of pure wildness passed over me. But Magdalena touched my arm gently, saying, “Marta, do as the nurse asks. ” Forcing myself to think Drewe isn’t here, that was not Drewe in the morgue. That was a dream. Medicated thoughts come shattered and scrambled but if you stand very still and breathe very slowly the moment will pass, the madness fades.
I had, I had helped her. And then I had not. This fact, I would tell no one. Not one of my interrogators in the hospital at Newburgh. Newburgh, that aging city on the Hudson River. We’d rarely driven there, it wasn’t one of Drewe’s cities. The river widens here, perpetually windy, the hue of slate. I stared at the broken waves and rippling slats of light in the water’s surface like nerve endings in a gigantic skin. The small-souled are born to be slaves of the larger-souled, it’s a law of nature.
Of course I had never heard of Artemisia Gentileschi, before Drewe. I had never heard of Caravaggio. In my aunt’s eyes I was crude and natural as a peasant, my eagerness to learn pleased her. No one so faithful to you as me. I promise. “Marta. ” The evening before I left the hospital. He came. Virgil West. Staring at me with a faint, forced smile. A look of disbelief in his eyes. Dread. Virgil West had been my aunt’s lover, several years before. They were estranged now. He was an artist of some renown, though his reputation had declined, lately.
Girls, Girls, Girls by Sandra Malone