Maria Porges, ‘Shortest Story 68’, 2016, Tayloe Piggott Gallery

It’s winter, raining hard. We are trying to snooze, sweaty mammals huddled close, but a gutter has ruptured on the house next door, releasing a stream straight down thirty feet to a fan of cement five yards from our bed. Stop twisting the covers into knots, he says. Just pretend it’s the freeway at rush hour, you’ll sleep. Somewhat soothed, I close my eyes to an imagined gridlock of fish and naked divers, accompanied by the tinny sound of mandolins, being swept out to sea.

About Maria Porges