Jon Ferguson

﻿Lonely Philip Papp cuts a sad version of Michelangelo’s David. But that doesn't seem to matter post-deluge and he manages to attract a small crowd of spectators, most days, from his first-floor window. After the flood, Betty Swain's old, arthritic fingers are free to work their magic with impunity and (bless her heart) for no fixed fee. Bereft, bemused widowers are happy to pay her a fair rate. Ask Bill the policeman. Who sent the mysterious flood? Decided which people would perish? Did all ambition, judgement, and censure recede and evaporate with it? Jon Ferguson's novel holds a mirror up to a West that's all but saturated with covetousness, media, and law enforcement. Humorous and joyful, with fat droplets of pathos...is it a utopian or dystopian vision? The thing is, your need to judge and then pigeonhole might not even survive the narrative.

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