Lana Spendl

Lana Spendl

lana-spendlWe Cradled Each Other in the Air

Published: Feb. 2017

Within: Delphi Series Vol. 5

alicia-armstrong-words-never-listen Cover Art by Alicia Armstrong

ISBN-13: 1541340398 (Blue Lyra Press)

ISBN-10:  1541340396

 

Spendl‘s fiction pieces in this chapbook impress and instruct. These sharp gems are like, as Nobel laureate Nadine Gordimer has said of this form, “flash of fireflies.” With swift movements they illuminate the vulnerabilities and triumphs of the human soul.” —Samrat Upadhyay

 

Lana Spendl’s work has appeared in The Cortland Review, The Greensboro Review, Hobart, Quarter After Eight, Lunch Ticket, Fiction Southeast, storySouth, Monkeybicycle, Gargoyle, and other literary magazines. She holds an M.F.A. in creative writing and an M.A. in Spanish literature from Indiana University, where she served as the nonfiction editor to Indiana Review. She is originally from Bosnia but spent part of her childhood in Spain due to the Bosnian war. She currently lives in Bloomington, Indiana, where she is working on her first novel.

 

 

Flinging Superstitions

I’m walking through an Indiana cemetery and I remember a friend of a friend in New York City chiding me because of my tendency to walk through cemeteries. “You need to let the dead rest,” she said. “I’m not digging up their bodies,” I answered. How defensive I got. How irritated. Because she spoke with an authority too old for her age. As if her words were the words of her father or grandmother or a whole slew of elders who had been cooking up their judgments since the beginning of time. And if there had been a cemetery near the café where we sat, I would have given her the finger and powerwalked through it right before her eyes. But now in my walk I come upon a man’s picture on a gravestone. He is young and wears a suit and he looks like a scared boy who’s been dressed in the clothes of a man. My irritation crumples under his uncertain gaze. He is honest. I am not. I am the same as my friend’s friend. I fling around the superstitions of others as if they were my own and I raise my chin up in the air like a pissed off runway model. I grasp at empty judgments with my hands and mold them into verdicts and decrees, and all the while, underneath it all, flows a terrifying river of darkness and gold. I see glimpses of it sometimes and quickly turn away.

 

-from Gargoyle