Mark O'Flynn

“She follows her nose and stands once more before the doors of a quintessential dilemma. Male or Female. Here is her paradox. A staccato voice seems to challenge her, berate her. Hombre or Mujer. Mann or Frau. Homme or Femme. Gentleman or Lady. Com on, decide. She knows them all. She is them all. Not fluid or all-encompassing, gathering the harvest of the reaping fields, but fractured and split and bleeding. Her inner core weeping out of itself. There is nothing for hermaphrodites. It's too confusing. The words rattle around in her earbones, androgynous and humming. How can she choose? She cannot choose. To choose is to sunder.”
― Mark O'Flynn, The Last Days of Ava Langdon

“She indicates the grave that Ava adorns like something from the Weimar Republic. Ava jumps up (ouch) and they both examine the inscription on the stone.
'Very poetic,' says Ava.
'Denise, my daughter, chose it.'
'I am so dreadfully sorry.'
'That's all right.' Poppy passes a finger under her eye. 'I don't think he would have minded.'
'No, I mean the metre is awful. Who makes up this stuff? Where's the Miss you, old trooper, where's the Ride on, stranger? It's all lambs' tails and fingerprints of the everlasting.'
'Pardon?'
'Never mind. Just thinking out loud...”
― Mark O'Flynn, The Last Days of Ava Langdon