Contributors

Valerie Martin
Contributor History

Biography
Valerie Martin
Valerie Martin’s most recent novel is The Ghost of the Mary Celeste (Vintage). She is also the author of three collections of short fiction, a biography of St. Francis of Assisi, and nine other novels, including Mary Reilly (winner of the 1990 Kafka prize and the basis for the Stephen Frears film of the same title), Property (2003 winner of Great Britain’s prestigious Orange Prize), and most recently The Confessions of Edward Day. This is her first online publication.

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In Print

Vol. 82
Works & Days
Spring 2024
Bradford Morrow

Online

July 10, 2024
Marcie decided on Vertigo because she’d recently encountered several texts in quick succession that made extensive reference to it: Chris Marker’s time travel film told in still images, La Jetée, Terry Gilliam’s unlikely Hollywood adaptation, 12 Monkeys, and a story by Bennett Sims called “White Dialogues” about an embittered academic seething in an auditorium during a lecture being given by the hot new thing in Hitchcock studies. The coincidence made her feel involved with the film, and vice versa, in a way that evades more specific description.
July 3, 2024
We slapped together two clods of oak around a broken bedpan lid and twined them together with a horsetail. Realized then our discovery: the first knife ever. We go to Tony’s. Tony indicates our find—What is that shit?—and he slides us each a prairie fire: whisky, tabasco. Crab says, Maybe lean forward, Tony, and Tony, doing so, discovers the knife sinking in buttery smooth, right between his ribs.
 
June 26, 2024
Moments lately, I think I am on the brink of an epiphany, swept right to the threshold by, say, the pulp of a grape or the progress of a Beethoven sonata or some other spiritual force, and were I to cross over it, loosed into the light of that knowledge, it would also mean my days on earth are numbered, that I have understood all that is needed before this life meets its resolution. But each time I am held back, caught by the hem of my shirt, denied whatever I thought I might see, allowed it only in periphery.