Tutti loves only three things in this world, and he loves them well: his birds, his liquor, and Gemma, the junkmonger who keeps the stall next to his barrel.

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“How disappointing I must seem,” he said at last. “I didn’t know I’d become a folk figure. I would have grown a great beard.”

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I lay on the drowned grand piano, naked, my head that of a chess-horse, my hands and feet stumps oozing black-green blood onto the keys.

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I wanted to ask her more questions, about the way the world was made, about death and dreams, but did not want to know the answers.

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Chloe’s first instinct was to hustle Willy and Annie out of the zoo, lest they learn prematurely there was such a thing as atheism.

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The metalman had always been behind her, its steel hooks eager to split her open, for as far back as she could remember.

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I knew the streets. I were a quick strike and a wary eye, but this...

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Something sat in the rugmaker's belly, small and solid and chill, and her husband's songs ceased to warm it.

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The body's exposed intestines writhed with pale-pink caterpillars, Corpsewing larvae, a sight Yinghua found at once repulsive and fascinating.

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