From Wolf at the Table, by Adam Rapp:
Her son’s voice is like a piece of thread being slowly pulled away from this room, out of this house that she loves, this house filled with books and firewood and simple comforts. She follows his voice over the hide of the nearby mountains, into snowy forests stripped of their leaves, along the rugged shores of ancient lakes, across vast, unending plains of wheat and corn and lentil, through rocky mountains, deserts, canyons, and on into blue oceans of infinity.
From Parasol Against the Axe, by Helen Oyeyemi:
And the throne was held by a King entirely composed of question marks.
If the world and its ideas are a jigsaw puzzle of boundless dimensions, then question-marked and question-remarkable Rudolf had raised a hurricane of puzzle pieces that flew elliptically, crashed to the ground, shattered in collision with each other, connected in mid air, fell upward…?
From Night Will Find You, by Julia Haeberlin:
“Memories are not well-behaved ghosts,” I answer carefully. “Neither are my … visions. Half the time, memories are drunk and partying with the imagination.
