Harmonium Mundi

by M. Panitch, based on The Score by Alaya Dawn Johnson.

Asymmetrical pierced earrings in argentium non-tarnishing sterling silver, stainless steel, kyanite, rock crystal, and freshwater pearl.

This piece will be auctioned off to benefit the Interstitial Arts Foundation at iafauctions.com


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    IAFAuctions.com is part of the fundraising arm of the Interstitial Arts Foundation, a not–for–profit organization dedicated to the study, support, and promotion of interstitial art.

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    A Taste of Interfictions 2
    • “After the children are asleep, she goes to her room and sees the dress of gold laid out on her bed, unzipped and waiting for her. The lining is embroidered with bees (from the mother's name, the dress was made for her).

      She looks out the window, as if she can signal someone, but it's night out, and the window might as well be painted over black.

      She puts on the dress and goes to his room.

      "Very good," he says, and she feels like her mouth has been stuffed with cotton and no light will ever reach her.

      When he zips the dress closed she can feel the bees spring to life inside the dress, a thousand tiny stings.”
      From: To Set Before the King by Genevieve Valentine
    • “October evening, 1969. Golden leaves spiral down. Johnny tries to catch one. His fingers touch the whisper of leaf but close on air. It doesn’t matter. He spins across the yard, dodging gold bullets. He’s hit! He’s hit! He falls to the ground, rolling in leaf, grass, sticks and dirt. In the distance, a dog barks. The boy lies still, arms spread, legs at odd angles. Dead. He is dead when the car pulls up in front of his house. Heart beating wild from all his spinning, he is dead, trying to still his breath when the doors slam shut and shoes click up the sidewalk, dead when a man’s voice says, “Mrs. Harlyle?” dead when his mother screams, a siren-sound that falls to the ground like leaves. The boy is dead when he opens his eyes, looks at the sky, darkly now. Dead as he lays there, waiting for God, angel, or ghost. Dead as one leaf spiral-lands on his cheek.”
      From: The Beautiful Feast by M. Rickert
    • “Every day for three decades, the abandoned house strains against its galling anchors, hoping to pull free. It has waited thirty years for its pipes and pilings to finally decay so it can leave for Florida to find the Macek family. Nobody in its Milford neighborhood will likely miss the house or even notice its absence; it has hidden for decades behind overgrown bushes, weeds, and legends. When they talk about the house at all, the neighbors whisper about the child killer who lived there long ago with his family: a wife and five children who never knew their father kept his rotting playmate in the crawlspace until the police came. The house, however, knows the truth and wants to confess it, even if it has to crawl eight hundred miles.”
      From: Remembrance is Something Like a House by Will Ludwigsen
    • “People always get my origin story wrong. I wasn't "born in an explosion," I am the explosion; if I'm the chicken, the bomb was the egg. It's just that no one's ever taken responsibility for laying it. Anything else blows up, anywhere in L.A., and the gangs and factions fall all over each other to take credit, but someone takes out the craft services tent on the set of a minor erotic space opera and no one says a word.”
      From: The 121 by David J. Schwartz

    Click here for another excerpt