In these stories, Marilyn Krysl explores the timely subject of women in transition. These women, bound in the traditional roles of housewife, mother, daughter, mother-to-be, try to come to terms with themselves and people around them. In seeking to reveal the truth about women in their daily lives, Krysl's message is that appearances only hint at what lurks beneath the surface.

Park. Lush, summery park. Undergrowth of ferns, climbing vines, plants with wide splayed leaves. Palms. Kalanchoe. A persimmon tree.  Damp grass. Very green this greenery. Overabundance of greenery. And humid, all this foliage slightly steaming.

All this foliage wants an act of violence.

We’re confused about this.Television’s confused us, and the movies.  Even radio at an early age began to confuse us. Rockefeller, Morgan, Carnegie contributed to our confusion. Wonderbread sponsored our chemical confusion. By now confusion’s bred into our genes. The list of sponsors, donors, and patrons is monotonous and long. I could name more names, but if I did, I’d mention some names and omit others. Then I’d be guilty of distortion. Unintended, but good intentions aren’t enough. Though they’re what I’ve got. I feel inadequate to the job before me.I close my eyes and, as in pin the tail on the donkey I jab with my index finger and come up with

ROOSEVELT, big stick in hand, his mouth full of teeth and jingoism. In Glenwood Springs, Colorado, he hunts the grizzly bear.  Roosevelt, shaped like a barrel, grinning. Striding through the maidenhair ferns.  Grizzly lumbering along, much like Roosevelt himself. They meet. The bearr, amazed, rears upright. Much like Roosevelt himself. They meet.  The bear, amazed, rears upright. Much like standing. But now a sniper, lurking in a Ponderosa, gets Roosevelt neatly through the corpus callosum. R doesn’t know what hit him. Quite suddenly the Ponderosa is surrounded by plainclothesmen. The sniper double-somersaults down, the plainclothesmen gather around the body. Now one of them, nursing a grudge against his superior and thinking to take advantage of the

CONFUSION: Listen: don’t think I’ve escaped alone to tell you. I’ve never in my life escaped anything. I’m as confused as you are. I am seldom sure in a given instance which detail is to the point, which gratuitous. As now: R’s watch fob slung from his waist, forest-filtered light reflected from his bifocals, and behind the bifocals, blood lust and more

CONFUSION.

We think this foliage wants an act of violence. We think wilderness is dull without blood.  The high Sierras, without Bogart, bore us. Glacier national Park, without Susan Thomas of Bisby North Dakota mauled by a crazed brown bear, puts us to sleep.  We can’t get to sleep without our nightly cup of blood. We think blood is where the action is. All those long pans of the white sheets caked with come disappoint us, we’re hoping for a little color. We think it’s blood that brings things to an interesting head. We think it’s blood that releases tension. You think this will end in blood. Can I be sure it won’t?

We’re thoroughly confused.

But I want to hurry, Ken is waiting. Now what is there besides this foliage?

A red kite…..