The Plot by David Bradford


To investigate the narratology of overlapping forms and instances of ongoing intergenerational trauma—a believably endless weave of aftermaths—to deal in that with any kind of honesty is to bow to a necessary circuitousness. In The Plot, the outcomes of the matter are, in a literal but subtle sense, fated, subject to the physical properties of bad memories. Like a fabric, they bind, wipe, cover up. Warping, ripping, surged to, and rubbed raw against their counterparts. The family’s archival patchwork. The best they’ve got. Which, The Plot begins to lay out, inevitably takes precedent over what is lost.



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