This story was written over a period of 3 days in 1996, when I did nothing other than work on it while listening repetitively to Bob Mould’s That’s a Good Idea.
I had experienced a very unusual dream the night before; which was the inspiration for the dream sequences woven through this story.
This is one of my few forays into fiction, and it turned out to be prescient in a number of peculiar ways. I had been exploring the complexities of the relationship between text and the transformation of reality.
Shortly thereafter, I met M., an expert seamstress who rode a black racing bike ( a Honda Hawk named Emma after Emma Peel of the Avengers ) modified by her ex-husband Simon.
Her best friend was pregnant at the time, and named her daughter… Kestrel.
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The membrane of night lay thickly over the body, over its coverings of skin and blankets, its breathing. June rearranged herself in the dunes of bedclothes many times during her sleep that night, trying to locate a remembered position of comfort, that arrangement of the body most conducive to easy repose, but no matter how she struggled within the blankets, the necessary position eluded her.
