Early winter weather has us pondering an alternate definition of “slush pile,” albeit the mucky, grey residue remaining after a city snowfall. Our Slush Pile is far more fresh, but still a wintry mix as we discuss the short story “Catherine of the Exvangelical Deconstruction” by Candice Kelsey. You might want to jump down the page and read or listen to it in full first, as there are spoilers in our discussion!   The story is set on the day of the Women’s March, following 2017’s Inauguration Day, but only references those events in the most glancing of ways. Instead the protagonist glances away to an array of distractions: Duolingo, a Frida Kahlo biography, a bat documentary, European architecture, banjo music, a stolen corpse flower, daydreaming, and actual dreaming. In the withholding of the protagonist’s interiority, Sam sees a connection to Rachel Cusk’s Outline, while Jason is reminded of early Bret Easton Ellis. The editors discuss how fiction might evoke the internet’s fractioning of our attention, by recreating the fractioning or reflecting it?   We’d like to offer congratulations to Sam whose debut book of short stories, “Uncertain Times,” just won the Washington Writers Publishing House Fiction Prize. As always, thanks for listening!   At the table: Dagne Forrest, Samantha Neugebauer, Jason Schneiderman, Kathleen Volk Miller, Lisa Zerkle, and Lilllie Volpe (Sound Engineer)   Listen to the story “Catherine of the Exvangelical Deconstruction” read in its entirety by Dagne Forrest (separate from podcast reading) (Bio): Candice M. Kelsey (she/her) is a bi-coastal writer and educator. Her work has received Pushcart and Best-of-the-Net nominations, and she is the author of eight books. Candice reads for The Los Angeles Review and The Weight Journal; she also serves as a 2025 AWP Poetry Mentor. Her next poetry collection, Another Place Altogether, releases December 1st with Kelsay Books. (Website): https://www.candicemkelseypoet.com/ (Instagram): @Feed_Me_Poetry   Catherine of the Exvangelical Deconstruction Catherine’s thumb hovers over Duolingo’s question, her mind dim from doom scrolling, chest dead as TikTok. The green owl stares. She swears its beak is twitching.  “Got 5 minutes?”  She swipes Duo, that nosy bastard, and his taunting French flag icon away. “Non.” The apartment is dim, the air too still. Days feel hollow and unhinged, as if she’s Edmond Dantès tossed off the cliff of Chatêau d’If, a brief and misplaced shell weighted to the depths of the sea. So much for learning a language to calm the nerves. Frida Kahlo's face stares from the page of a book she hasn't finished reading. “I should just return this already.” There are days she commits to her syllabus of self-education and days she resents it. Kahlo’s eyes pierce her, and giving up feels like large-scale feminist betrayal—how she has shelved the artist, her wounds, tragic love, and all. But even sisterhood is too much this January 21st, and of all people, Kahlo would understand. Catherine opens her laptop and starts a documentary about bats instead. Chiroptera. A biologist with kind eyes speaks of their hand-like bones, the elastin and collagenous fiber wings. The chaos of nature is its own magic realism. She learns bats are vulnerable like the rest of us. Climate disruption and habitat loss. Plus white nose syndrome and the old standby, persecution by ignorant humans who set their caves aflame. In the documentary, there is a bat with the liquid amber eyes of a prophet. Maybe that’s what this world has had too much of, she begins to consider. Mid-deconstruction of decades in the white, evangelical cesspit of high control patriarchy, Catherine sees the world as one big field day full of stupid ego-competitions like cosmic tug-a-wars. And prophets were some of the top offenders. King Zedekiah, for one, had the prophet Jeremiah lowered into a well by rope, intending he sink into the mud and suffocate. All because he warned the people of their emptiness. Her mind wanders to Prague, to art, to something far away that might fill her own cistern life. “Maybe next summer,” she whispers. “Charles Bridge, St. Vitus.” The rhythm of bluegrass hums through the speakers, enough to anchor her here, in this room, in this thin sliver of a world she cannot escape. “That could be the problem; I need to learn Czech. No, fuck Duo.” J'apprendrai le français. J'irai à Prague. Je verrai les vieux bâtiments. But then, something strange. The banjo’s pluck feels different, deeper, its twang splitting the air. She Googles the history of Bluegrass, and the words tumble from the page, layering like the weight of a corpse settling into the silt off the coast of Marseille. The banjo isn’t Appalachian in origin but rather West African—specifically from the Senegalese and Gambian people, their fingers strumming the akonting, a skin drum-like instrument that whispered of exile, of worlds ripped apart. American slavers steeped in the bitter twisting of scripture trafficked them across the Middle Passage, yet in the cruel silence of the cotton fields, they turned their pain into music. How are we not talking about this in every history class in every school in every state of this nation? The akonting, an enslaved man’s lament, was the seed of a gourd that would bloom into the sounds of flatpicking Southerners. Still, the banjo plays on in Catherine’s apartment. A much more tolerable sound than Duolingo’s dong-ding ta-dong. But she can’t quite cleanse her mind of the French lessons, of Lily and Oscar. Il y a toujours plus. Her voice is barely a whisper, trying to reassure herself. There must be more. A recurring dream, soft and gleaming like a pearl—her hands moving over cool clams, shucking them on a beach house in Rhode Island. It’s a faint memory, but no less ever present. Aunt Norma and Uncle Francis’ beach cottage and the closest thing to a Hyannis Port Kennedy afternoon of cousins frolicking about by the edge of a long dock lured back by the steam of fritters. But this time, Ocean Vuong stands beside her. He’s talking about the monkey, Hartford, the tremors of the world. And the banjo has morphed into Puccini’s La Bohème, which laces through the rhythm of Vuong’s syntax like a golden libretto. They notice a figure outside the window, a shadow in the sand—the new neighbor? He’s strange. A horticulturist, they say. Catherine hasn’t met him, but there are rumors. “Did he really steal it?” Vuong asks. She practices her French—it’s a dream after all—asks “Le cadavre fleuri?” They move to whispers, like a star’s breath in night air. Rumor stands that in the middle of California’s Eaton fire, the flower went missing from the Huntington Museum in Pasadena. The Titan Arum, bloated and bizarre in its beauty and stench, just vanished. Fran at the liquor store says the new neighbor, gloves always pressed to the earth, took it.  At night, she hears him in the garden, talking to the roots. She imagines his voice, murmuring something incomprehensible to the moonlight. Like that’s where the truth lies—beneath the soil, between the cracks of broken promises, smelling faintly of rot. She recalls the history she once read, so distant, so impossibly rotten. During WWII, when the Nazis swept through Prague, they forced Jewish scholars to scour their archives. They wanted to preserve the so-called “best” of the Jews—manuscripts, texts, holy materials—for their future banjo-twisted Museum of an Extinct Race. She shudders. The music, the wild joy of the banjo, now seems infected with something ancient and spoiled. The act of collecting, of preserving, feels obscene. What do you keep? What do you discard? Whom do you destroy? She wakes from the dream, her phone still alive with French conjugations. The bluegrass hums, but it’s heavier, like a rope lowering her into Narragansett Bay. The neighbor’s house is dark. But she thinks she can see him, a silhouette against the trees, standing still as a warning. Everything is falling apart at the seams, and she is both a part of it and apart from it. Like each church she left, each youth group and AWANA or Vacation Bible School where she tried to volunteer, to love on the kids, to be the good follower she was tasked with being.  She leans her forehead against the cool glass of the window, closing her eyes. The ache is there, the same ache that never quite leaves. It’s sharp, it’s bitter, it’s whole. The small, steady thrum beneath it all. Il y a toujours plus. Maybe tomorrow she will satisfy Duo. Maybe next fall she will dance down a cobbled street in Prague. Find five minutes to feel human. Perhaps she will be whole enough, tall as St. Vitus Cathedral, to face whatever is left of this America. She closes her eyes to Puccini’s Mimi singing Il y a toujours plus and dueling banjos while her neighbor secretly drags a heavy, tarp-covered object across his yard under the flutter of Eastern small-footed bats out for their midnight mosquito snack. A scene only Frida Kahlo could paint.