print by Friedrich Meckseper
"It is evident [Martha] know[s] how to craft fine prose, fine fiction. I'm delighted and impressed!"
--Paul Harding, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of Tinkers and Enon, on Martha's fiction
"A radical act of imagination...DO NOT miss this."
--Catapult Story on Martha's fiction
The themes in Martha's fiction include the emotional power of music, the interplay of time and memory, and the disciplined life. Martha is currently completing a new novel.
Short Story Deep Blue|Vol.1 Brooklyn
"1963. Katya detoured to St. Patrick’s Cathedral before ballet company class. Not to attend Mass—she didn’t need to mouth words and hymns that punctuated her childhood—but for sanctuary and anonymity. Genuflecting before she started down the great center aisle, Katya took a pew on the left toward the altar, where she could avoid Fifth Avenue’s street noise and bathe in the rainbow of colors refracted through rows of stained-glass windows. She felt alone in the cavernous space, less a child of her parents than an autonomous woman....
Short Story The Gigolo|eMerge Magazine
"I once shared an office with a gigolo. We were paralegals at a white shoe law firm in midtown Manhattan. His name was Gil and he was on leave from Columbia Law School. Gil dressed like a banker, blonde hair parted on the side—cut close to his head, but not too close—a touch of gel; and black Ferragamo shoes, immaculately shined....
Short Story The House with the Plexiglas Frame|Vol.1 Brooklyn
"Lynette awoke to find her husband Jack sitting in a Plexiglas house in her brain. He was as clear to her as the blinking red 7:01 on the face of her digital clock. Just in case, she rolled over and checked again. He was not on his back, lips open, snoring. Gone. As if she needed evidence! Her head was throbbing, punctuated like snare drums rat-a-tat-tatting....
Short Story Polymorphia|Catapult
"There’s one in particular I remember—a bull named Arthur. He had giant padded feet, a trunk with the rhythm and sweep of a flamenco dancer, and a rump like the dome of the Taj Mahal....
Short Story/Novel Excerpt Before America|Slush Pile Magazine
"Mutter jumped off the train holding little Max. She landed a meter away, her skin showing through the elbows of her coat, a remaining button hanging by a thread. In place of air, a smoky stench. In place of sound, shouting soldiers....
Short Story/Novel Excerpt At the Ballet|Vol.1 Brooklyn
“We need her in white,” Mr. Yanakov said to the wardrobe mistress as he smoothed back his silver hair. “I’d like to see the exact line of her breasts. The skirt should cling to the ankle...
Short Story/Novel Excerpt Rain Song|Vol.1 Brooklyn
"He was spinning in front of the mirrors, humming, when she arrived. “Katya Symanova.” He walked toward her and picked up her chin. “I missed you.” Bumping his forehead against hers, he put his hand on her buttocks and pulled her in. “It’s not the same, being away,” he whispered...
Novel Excerpt American Seder|Yale's Letters Journal
"John heard a knock. 'I hate to interrupt the young scholar here,' Barney Katz said, dragging in the stepstool, 'but when Selma gets going, there’s no stopping her. She’s started her annual assault on the kitchen cabinets. Down there brandishing the scrubbing brush. Hunting chametz. Woe to every last breadcrumb.' Barney angled the stepstool inside Buddy’s closet and disappeared up it. Buddy had been killed in combat in Sicily...
Short Fiction Duet for Solo Violin|Inkapture Magazine
"We’ll plan a Memorial Concert,” Adam said to the guests seated in folding chairs around his father. 'As soon as Dad’s up to it.' The two pianos faced each other like matching jigsaw pieces. Someone had thought to lower their ebony lids. Victor Pearl, mute in his green armchair, extended his long legs. He was the remaining half of Pearl and Pearl, the two piano team renowned for their sparkling precision at the piano faculty at Philadelphia’s famed Caldwell Institute of Music...
Short Fiction Phosphorescence|Referential Magazine
"In winter she sat by the window and watched the ice floes drift down the Pamisquaddy River. They were the season’s flotsam, envoys from an unknown shore. She tried to imagine where they came from—a pond breaking up in Canada, or perhaps the next town over, the closest one up Maine’s jagged coast. If she could swoop down like a giant bird and collect them, she thought they might fit neatly together, the scattered pieces of a frozen jigsaw puzzle....
Novel Excerpt Kaddish for Barney|Poetica Magazine
"The limousine pulled up to Barney’s grave site, gaping ready for his coffin. Dirt was piled to one side. “They’ve covered my son,” Selma said, getting out of the car and holding John’s arm as she looked around. “I asked them not to.” She took a crumpled tissue from her pocket and wiped her eyes. John hadn’t been here before; he wasn’t sure why....