Susan Isla Tepper presented her darkly comic play CLANDESTINE in an Equity Premiere Staged-reading, hosted by SHOPTALK, on June 10 at EAG Guild Hall Theatre, NYC. Her latest Novel “Hair of a Fallen Angel” was published by Spuyten Duyvil Books. A twenty-year writer, she’s written 12 published books of fiction and poetry and 7 stage plays. Honors include 21 Pushcart Prize Nominations. Her play ‘The Crooked Heart’ concerning artist Jackson Pollock premiered on October 25, 2022 at the Irish Repertory Theatre in NYC. Adapted from an earlier novel, it was nominated for a Pulitzer Prize. Susan is a Brand Ambassador for The Galway Review. A Youtube music video for her latest novel at: https://youtu.be/W2HVIc4NrqY

Meditations on dear Petrov

By Susan Isla Tepper

Set in 19th-century Russia during a time of war

Milliseconds

Torture, dear Petrov, begins simply. Too many lights not enough clothing. Deprivations. It is the length of them that wears one down. I could sit naked in front of the river and feel the cold for an hour or six and not be afraid. It’s when the night drops its veil that my skin takes on the sharp prickle of memory: warm coat, boots, ample hat, scarf, thick gloves. It is then I know I’m weary. More weary than I can recall. Because of the mountain, morning stalls. And my eyes. They will not open though the light grows brighter each day; in milliseconds. Dear Petrov you hold a map of my roads. Lodged within you its markers. Each road I will travel. You can trace the ruts and holes where I might twist an ankle. Get a wheel stuck. Or turn over the entire cart. Goods spilled. The road littered with me and my scant items. Yet you don’t speak yet you control my destiny. If I am to break down on these corrupted roads you will know in advance. You will know just from knowing. There is no secret to that.

Rubbing Up

There is nothing about this room that doesn’t speak to clutter and disorder. The furniture— pushed together— an overload of sofas against chairs against tables. Rubbing up. Lit lamps on every table top. Walls spilling paintings overlapping paintings. This room fell apart when the floods came. After that nobody visited. Rendered invisible, at least by you. I saw each time how you passed it by going up the stairs to nowhere. What happens at the top, I used to think. Seeing only clouds against a back draft. Who could assemble such a room out of darkness. You, of course, saying nothing. Nothing, dear Petrov, disturbs you more than a weeping woman. But you keep this buried where your gun nestles its spare limb. I could bring my horse into this room and it would find a place to feed. You laugh heartily saying, Who would notice since nobody comes here now. I could ride bareback around the furniture, my arms dangling over its soft eyes.