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Fantastic Women: 18 Tales of the Surreal and the Sublime from Tin House

Meet the daughters of Franz Kafka, Mary Shelley, the Brothers Grimm, and Angela Carter. Fantastic Women assembles the work of eighteen inventive, insightful women authors who steep their narratives in a heady potion of surrealism and macabre black comedy. The results are wildly creative stories that capture the truth about human nature far more than much of the fiction (or, for that matter, the nonfiction) being written today.

Why just women? More and more women writers are creating work that not only pushes the envelope but also folds realistic fiction into an origami dragon, transporting readers into worlds we’ve never seen before and digging deeper into the psychic bedrock than their male counterparts.

So slip into a pocket universe, drive through a family’s home, awake in the night to find you’ve become a deer, and dive into the ocean to join your mermaid mother. We can’t imagine ever wanting to escape this spellbinding world, but if you must, best leave a trail of crumbs along your way.

  • Page Count: 270
  • Direct Price: $15.00
  • List Price: $18.95
  • 5 1/2 x 8 1/2
  • Trade Paper
  • August 2011
  • 978-1-935639-10-7
Format Price

Price as Configured $0.00

Rob Spillman is editor of Tin House magazine and executive editor of Tin House Books. He was previously the monthly book columnist for Details magazine and is a contributor of book reviews and essays to Salon and Bookforum. He has written for the Baltimore Sun, the Boston Review, British GQ, Connoisseur, Details, Nerve, the New York Times Book Review, Premiere, Rolling Stone, Spin, Sports Illustrated, SPY, Vanity Fair, Vogue, and Worth, among other magazines, newspapers, and online magazines. He has also worked for Random House, Vanity Fair, and the New Yorker.

Contributors include Aimee Bender, Kate Bernheimer, Judy Budnitz, Sarah Shun-lien Bynum, Lucy Corin, Lydia Davis, Rikki Ducornet, Julia Elliott, Samantha Hunt, Miranda July, Kelly Link, Lydia Millet, Alissa Nutting, Gina Ochsner, Stacey Richter, Karen Russell, Julia Slavin, and Gina Zucker.


With an introduction by Joy Williams:

Joy Williams is the author of four novels–the most recent, The Quick and the Dead, was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize in 2001–and two earlier collections of stories, as well as Ill Nature, a book of essays that was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award for criticism. Among her many honors are the Rea Award for the short story and the Strauss Living Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. She lives in Key West, Florida, and Tucson, Arizona.

"Stories—subtly disturbing, ruthlessly brilliant—by eighteen top-of-the-trend writers."
—Ursula K. Le Guin


“Compellingly weird and weirdly compelling narratives.”
Publishers Weekly


“Reinventing surrealism and pushing fiction’s boundaries . . .”
Ms. Magazine


“A compilation of compelling and entertaining stories by women who emphatically do not mimic the everyday in their work.”

—Seattle Times


“The title Fantastic Women does not oversell the content. This story collection features works surreal and peculiar, unexpected and sublime . . . Fantastic Women pulls off a daunting task. These stories improve with a second reading, remaining fresh and surprising even when their final twist is know.”
The Denver Post


“[An] astute, adroitly rendered and fanciful collection.”
Tucson Weekly


"Fantastic Women is a book you want to keep close to you at all times. Reading it made me feel I was inside the imaginations of 18 wildly talented writers. What fantastic company they make."

—Vendela Vida, author of The Lovers and Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name

"Fantastic Women puts on a clinic of what’s possible in the short story today. And 'fantastic' is an understatement. The best anthology I’ve read in years."

—Ben Marcus

"That the future is female is nowhere more thrillingly beholdable than in the dominion of literary fiction, where women writers' rejection of rote realism and received forms has cleared the way for visionary misadventure, soulful weirdness, and verbal outlandishments of the highest order. The page-by-page grit and shimmer of these stories, the unlidded imagination and teeming wisdom of these bold and unpredictable writers, reanimate our language and our literature. Here at last is an anthology that's all guts and all gusto, motioning forcibly toward the new world that all of us--women and men alike--had better know now or never."

—Gary Lutz, author of Stories in the Worst Way and I Looked Alive

Aimee Bender, “Americca”

Kate Bernheimer, “Whitework”

Judy Budnitz, “Abroad”

Sarah Shun-lien Bynum, “The Young Wife’s Tale”

Lucy Corin, “The Entire Predicament”

Lydia Davis, “Five Fictions in the Middle of the Night”

Rikki Ducornet, “The Dickmare”

Julia Elliott, “The Wilds”

Samantha Hunt, “Beast”

Miranda July, “Oranges”

Kelly Link, “Light”

Lydia Millet, “Snow White, Rose Red”

Alissa Nutting, “Hot, Fast, and Sad”

Gina Ochsner, “Song of the Selkie”

Stacey Richter, “The Doll Awakens”

Karen Russell, “The Seagull Army Descends on Strong Beach”

Julia Slavin, “Drive-Through House”

Gina Zucker, “Big People



By Kate Bernheimer


The cottage into which my companion had broken, rather than allow me, in my desperately wounded condition, to pass a night in the thick-wooded forest, was one of those miniaturized and hand-carved curiosities from the old folktales that make people roll their eyes in scorn. This, despite the great popularity of a collection of German stories published the very same year as my birth! As to the justifiability of this scornful reaction: I cannot abide it, nor can I avoid it by altering the facts. This is where I found myself: in a fairy-tale cottage deep in the woods. And I had no use of my legs.


When we came upon the cottage we were certain, by its forlorn appearance, that it had long ago been abandoned to the wind and the night, and that we would be perfectly safe. Or rather, my dear companion was certain of this. As for me, I was certain of nothing—not even of my own name, which still eludes me.


There were but few details for my enfeebled mind to record, as if the cottage had been merely scribbled into existence by a dreamer’s hand. Tiny pot holders hung from the wall in the kitchen, beside tiny dish towels embroidered with the days of the week. In each corner of each room was tucked an empty mousetrap—open and ready but lacking bait. At the entryway, on a rusted nail, hung a minuscule locket, along with a golden key. As to whether the locket ever was opened, and what it contained, I have conveniently misplaced any knowledge. About the key I will not presently speak.


My companion placed me onto a bed, though I would not know it was a trundle bed until morning. I had only vague notions as to how we had arrived at the cunningly thatched cottage, but I believe we had walked through the forest in search of safety. Perhaps we sought some gentle corner where we would not perish at the hands of those who pursued us. Or had we been banished from a kingdom I no longer recall?


The room in which my companion put me to bed was the smallest and least furnished of all. It lay, strangely enough, down a long hallway and up a stairway—I say “strangely” because the house was so diminutive from outside. I realized, upon waking in the morning, that I lay in a turret. Yet from outside, no curved wall was visible.

With its thatched roof the house had resembled a square Christmas package, a gift for a favorite stuffed rabbit—a perfect dollhouse of a cottage, the sort I had painstakingly, as a child, decorated with wallpaper, curtains, and beds.


Though there was scarcely any furniture in this turret room, the sparse pieces were exactly correct—nothing more, nothing less: the trundle bed, empty and open; and the walls bedecked with no other ornamentation or decoration save whitework, the same sampler embroidered with the same message over and over. It was embroidered in French, which I do not speak: Hommage à Ma Marraine. In the center of each piece of linen was sewn an image of a priest holding two blackbirds, one on each hand. The edges of all the whitework were tattered, and some even had holes. To these white-on-white sewings, my foggy mind immediately fastened, with an idiot’s interest—so intently that when my dear companion came up to the turret with a hard roll and coffee for breakfast, I became very angry with him for interrupting my studies.


What I was able to discern, looking about me while nibbling the roll after my companion had left, was that some of the whitework contained a single gold thread as the accent over the a. Why the gold thread was used, I had no idea; and in considering this detail, along with the remarkable fact that blackbirds had been so expertly= depicted in white, I finally asked my companion to return to the room. I called him and called him before he returned—disconcertingly, for it seemed he had returned only by accident, to fetch my empty teacup—and when he took the cup from my hand he gazed into it for a very long time without speaking a word.


At last, he closed the shutters of the windows tight, which was my wish, as it allowed me to see the whitework more clearly: I find I see better in the dark. A candle in the shape of a bluebird sat on the floor beside the bed, and I lit it, and turned it just-so, toward the wall. Luminous! I felt I had not, in many years, experienced such nocturnal bliss—even though the broad daylight shone outside the curtained windows, at least as broad as a day may shine in a deep and thickly wooded forest where real and grave danger does lurk.


This activity transfixed me for hours upon hours and days upon days.


In time, my companion and I so well established ourselves in the cottage that soon we felt that we had lived there our entire lives. I presume we had not lived there our entire lives, yet of the event that drove us into the forest to the cottage I cannot speak, and not only because I cannot recall it. But I can tell you that we had so well established ourselves in this cottage that I was shocked one morning to discover, under my feather pillow, a miniature book that had not been there before. It purposed to criticize and describe the whitework on the walls.


Bound in black velvet, with a pink ribbon as a placeholder, the volume fit precisely in the palm of my hand, just as if it had been bound for me to hold there. Long, long I read, and devoutly, devotedly I gazed. Rapidly and gloriously the hours flew by, and then the deep midnight came. (Not that I knew the day from night with the curtains so tightly drawn.) The bluebird was guttering—just a puddle of blue now, with yellow claws fashioned from pipe cleaners protruding from the edges of the blue puddle. I reached my hand out to try to build the wax once more into the form of a bird, but I achieved merely a shapeless mass of color. Regardless, the candlelight flamed up and shone more brightly than ever upon the black velvet book with onionskin pages.


In my zeal to illumine the onionskin, the better to learn about

Ma Marraine and so on, I had, with the candle’s light, also illumined the corners of the room, where sat the mousetraps. Yes, this turret had corners—quite a remarkable thing, as the room was a circle. If I failed to perceive the corners before, I cannot explain . . . truly this architectural marvel of corners was a marvel inside a marvel, since even the turret itself was not visible from outside.


With the corners of the room thus illumined, I now saw very clearly in one corner, behind a mousetrap, a very small portrait of a young girl just ripening into womanhood. I don’t know how that phrase comes to me—“ripening into womanhood”—for I would prefer simply to describe the portrait as a very small portrait of a young lady. But, to continue, I could not look at the painting for long. I found I had to close my eyes as soon as I saw the portrait— why, I have no idea, but it seems to be that my injury, rather than being limited to my crippled legs, had crept inward to my mind, which had become more . . . impulsive or secretive, perhaps. I forced my eyes back on the portrait again.


It was nothing remarkable, more a vignette than an exposition. The girl was depicted from top to bottom, smudged here and there, fading into the background, reminiscent somehow of the Kinderund Hausmärchen—yes, you could describe her portrait as an illustration. She was a plain girl, not unlike me. Her eyes were sullen, her hair lank and unwashed, and even in the face and shoulders you could see she was undernourished—also not unlike me. (It is not my intention to plead my case to you or to anyone else, now or in the future; I merely note the resemblance.)


Something about the girl’s portrait startled me back to life. I had not even realized what a stupor I’d lain in, there in the turret, but looking into her sullen eyes, I awoke. My awakening had nothing to do with the girl herself, I believe, but rather with the bizarre execution of this portrait, this tiny portrait—no bigger than that of a mouse, yet life-size. And it was painted entirely white upon white, just like the embroidery on the walls.


Though I felt more awake and alive than ever before, I found that I was also suddenly overcome with sadness. I don’t know why, but I do know that when my companion brought me my nightly black coffee, I sent him away for a pitcher of blueberry wine. I asked for him also to bring me a pink-flowered teacup. My needs felt at once more urgent and delicate, and thankfully he was able to find articles in the cupboards that satisfied them.


For quite some time, drinking the wine, I gazed at the portrait of the sullen girl staring out of miniature eyes. At length, wholly unsatisfied with my inability to decipher the true secret of the portrait’s effect (and apparently unaware that I very nearly was standing), I fell into the trundle. I turned my frustrated attentions back to the small book I had found under the pillow. Greedily, I turned its onionskin pages to the girl’s portrait. “Flat, unadorned,” the page read. The rest of the description was missing—everything except a peculiar exclamation for an encyclopedia to contain:




“And I died.” Those are the words that came to my head. But I did not die then, nor did I many days and nights later, there in the forest, where I lived with my companion quite happily—not as husband and wife, yet neither as siblings: I cannot quite place the relation.


Soon, of course, I thought of nothing else but the girl in the painting. Nightly my companion brought me a teacup of blueberry wine, and nightly I drank it, asked for another, and wondered: Who was she? Who am I? I expected no answer—nay, nay, I did not wish for one either. For in my wonder I possessed complete satisfaction.


It was of no surprise to me, so accustomed to confusions, that one morning I awoke to find the painting vanished—and not only the painting but all the little priests with the little birds from the walls. No whitework, no turret, no companion. No blueberry wine. I found myself in a different small and dark room, again on a bed (not a trundle). An old woman and a doctor sat by my side.


“Poor dear,” the old woman murmured. She added that I would do well to take courage. As you may imagine, the old woman and doctor were at once subjected to the greatest of my suspicions; and as I subjected them privately, I also protested publicly, for I knew I had done nothing to lose all I had learned to love there in that mysterious prison or home. No: I should have been very happy to be lame and blurred, to have my companion bring me teacups of wine at night, and in the morning my coffee and rolls. I never minded that the rolls were so tough to the bite that my teeth had become quite loose in their sockets, as loose as my brain or the bluebirds in the forest when their nests are looted by ravens.


Cheerfully, the doctor spoke over my protests. He said that my prognosis relied on one thing, and one thing alone: to eliminate every gloomy idea. He pointed toward a room I had not noticed before.


“You have the key to the Library,” he said. “Only be careful what you read.”