Bio:
Rifka Goldwyn was born of a coconut, or so her mother confessed at her brother's funeral. Legend has it that her mother's mother, Mary, had been stolen from Hazard, KY in '48, in the wake of her parents' untimely deaths (her father succumbed to a mining incident, her mother dismissed from life by a juggernaut grief no more than a harrowing fortnight later), abducted by distant relatives—the Feathers, in from Florida; they snatched her and her twin baby sister, leaving their three older brothers with who knows just how big a sack of fresh-plucked coconuts.
Rifka can be found come inclement Tuesdays in a farrow of ravenous hagfish sleaved from cigarette tinder, awash in a hog trough riddled with coffee and clotted cream. Her one lone tome, Sweet Briar and Firebrands of the Indigo Village (admonished in birdsong), can be found in paperback via (all apologies, really, she's sorry) amazon.com. She resides in Lexington, albeit years ago buried something deep in Arroyo Seco—makes ends meet cobbling pizzas together, and, in her down time, gayly parades downtown with a duck umbrella the color of chipperly chilblained gingkos.
Reason for signing up:
Because it seemed important, like protecting the bees or watching the sunrise shudder and blush and twist into tack-pale, lachrymose morning.
