I read recently that a good back story is important to getting your first book published, that people want to read books written by interesting people. Well, if that’s the case, then here’s your back story: author murders editor of pretentious literary press.
The body that leaned against the front of the hut was headless, and it was only when Crane kicked it aside from the door that she realized it was facing the wrong way, its back to her, legs buckled and broken, spine bent wrongwise.
The inside of Wolves’ makeshift prison cell was cut by the same teeth of moonlight as her own, but they didn’t dance. Like everything else in the hut, they were perfectly still.
If she had difficulty imagining paradoxes—like round squares or deafening silences or unthought thoughts—she wouldn’t get so upset. Paradoxes embody the impossible, and she isn’t intimidated by impossibility. It is the possible and the possibilities of the possible that distress her.
Dawn came gray and early to the edge of the canyon. Beyond that edge, there was nothing worth holding on to. Rachel rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, grinding the grit farther in. The tail end of a watch could make you see things.
But under her breath she mumbled, “Spadaj,” a word Frankie knew she used only when she was angry. A few moments after they had passed him, Frankie turned and looked back, but the teenager was gone, disappeared into the cross-weaved threads of people. Duch, he thought, a word his mother had taught him on Halloween. Ghost.