Blake Butler - Scorch Atlas

Blake Butlers Scorch Atlas is precisely that a series of maps,

or worlds, tied so tight they couldnt crane their necks.

Everything is either destroyed, rotting or festering and not

only the physical objects, but allegiances, hopes, covenants.

Yet these worlds are not abstract exercises, he is speaking

of life as it is, where there might be or may be, glass over

grave sites in display, and where we will be forced to make

or where we have made facemasks out of old newspapers.

The sole glimmer of light comes in recollection, as in:

a bear the size of several men There in the woods

behind our house, when I was still a girl like you.

JESSE BALL, author of The Way Through Doors and Samedi the Deafness

Theres something so big about Blake Butlers writing. Big as mens heads. Each inhale of Blakes wheeze brings streamers of loose hair, the faces of lakes and oceans, whales washed up half-rotten. You can try putting on a facemask made out of old newspaper. You can breathe in smaller rhythms. But you wont be able to keep this man out once youve opened his book. Open it!

KEN SPARLING, author of Dad Says He Saw You at the Mall

I am always looking for new writers like Blake Butler and rarely finding them, but Scorch Atlas is one of those truly original books that will make you remember where you were when you first read it. Scorch Atlas is relentless in its apocalyptic accumulation, the baroque language stunning in its brutality, and the result is a massive obliteration.

MICHAEL KIMBALL, author of Dear Everybody

Gracious thanks to the editors of the journals in which these stories previously appeared in slightly altered forms, including:

The Many Forms of Rain ___ Sent Upon Us appeared in DIAGRAMs 2008 Innovative Fiction issue. Thanks to Ander Monson.

The Disappeared appeared in New Ohio Review (/nor). Thanks to John Bullock.

Smoke House appeared in Hobart. Thanks to Aaron Burch and Elizabeth Ellen.

Gravel appeared in Quick Fiction. Thanks to Adam and Jennifer Pieroni.

Damage Claim Questionnaire appeared in Lake Effect. Thanks to George Looney.

Want for Wish for Nowhere appeared in New York Tyrant. Thanks to GianCarlo DiTrapano.

Television Milk appeared in The Open Face Sandwich. Thanks to Alan Bajandas and Benjamin Solomon.

The Gown from Mothers Stomach appeared in Ninth Letter. Thanks to Jodee Stanley and Andrew Ervin.

Seabed appeared in Phoebe. Thanks to Ryan Call.

Tour of the Drowned Neighborhood appeared in Harpur Palate. Thanks to Barrett Bowlin.

The Ruined Child appeared in Barrelhouse. Thanks to Dave Housley, Matt Kirkpatrick, Mike Ingram, Joe Killiany, and Aaron Pease.

Bath or Mud or Reclamation appeared in Avery Anthology and in Proximity as a mini-book. Thanks to Andrew Palmer, Steph Fiorelli, Adam Koehler, and Mairead Case.

Water Damaged Photos of Our House Before I Left It appeared in LIT. Thanks to Emily Taylor.

Exponential appeared in Willow Springs. Thanks to Sam Ligon.

Sections fromBloom Atlas appeared in Ellipsis asComa Ocean and in Oranges & Sardines asBloom Atlas. Thanks to Carl Evans and Didi Menendez.

We watched our dirt go white, our crop fields blacken. Trees collapsed against the night. Insects masked our glass so thick we couldnt see. The husks of roach and possum filled the gutters. Every inch mucked with white film. All spring the sky sat stacked with haze so high and deep it seemed a wall, a lidless cover sealing in or sealing out. Those were stretched days, croaking. I dont know what about them broke. I dont know why the rain came down in endless veil. It streaked the cities, wiped the wires. It splashed the dust out from our cricked knees. It came a week straight, then another. The earth turned to mud and grass to slick. Minor homes sucked underground. Children were washed out in the sloshing. The streets and theme parks bubbled brown. Some long weeks it went on that way. The air began to mush downtown. Wed just taken up wearing knee boots and canoes to market when the soft water turned to ice. Our once parched apartments saddled under gleaming. The fat white bricks pounded the face of anything uncovered. It was the last week of July. Ice dented buildings, ruined car windshields, ripped limbs clean off of trees. I saw an old man clobbered in the street, his glasses shattered, his dentures flush with blood. The backyard stacked knee-deep around me. The drum woke tones deep in my ear. I couldnt sleep right. You never knew what might cave in. Frost killed the power, ruined the highways. Those who tried to drive were mostly mauled run together in gagging slicks of solid liquid. Many neighborhoods froze enclosed. We spent uncounted ugly evenings with nowhere to look but at each other. When the TV finally came back, the news stations had such a backlog they began to list the names of the dead between commercials like the credits to some movie we wished wed never seen.

The year they tested us for scoliosis, I took my shirt off in front of the whole gym. Even the cheerleaders saw my bruises. Id been scratching in my sleep. Insects were coming in through cracks we couldnt find. There was something on the air. Noises from the attic. My skin was getting pale.

I was the first.

The several gym coaches, with their reflective scalps and high-cut shorts, crowded around me blowing whistles. They made me keep my shirt up over my head while they stood around and poked and pondered. Foul play was suspected. They sent directly for my father. They made him stand in the middle of the gym in front of everyone and shoot free-throws to prove he was a man. I didnt have to see to know. I heard the dribble and the inhale. He couldnt even hit the rim.

The police showed up and bent him over and led him by his face out to their car. You could hear him screaming in the lobby. He sounded like a woman.

For weeks after, I was well known. Even bookworms threw me up against the lockers, eyes gleaming. The teachers turned their backs. I swallowed several teeth. The sores kept getting worse. I was sent home and dosed with medication. I massaged cream into my wounds. I was not allowed to sleep alone. My uncle came to stay around me in the evenings. He sat in my mothers chair and watched TV. I told him not to sit there because no one did after Mother. Any day now Dad expected her return. He wanted to keep the smell of her worn inside the cracking leather until then. My uncle did not listen. He ordered porn on my fathers cable bill. He turned the volume up and sat watching in his briefs while I stood there knowing Id be blamed.

Those women had the mark of something brimming in them. Something ruined and old and endless, something gone.

By the third night, I couldnt stand. I slept in fever, soaked in vision. Skin cells showered from my soft scalp. My nostrils gushed with liquid. You could see patterns in my forehead oblong clods of fat veins, knotted, dim. I crouped and cowed and cringed among the lack of moonlight. I felt my forehead coming off, the ooze of my blood becoming slower, full of glop. I felt surely soon Id die and thered be nothing left to dicker. I pulled a tapeworm from my ear.