From Misinterpretation, by Ledia Xhoga:
Before leaving, he reached for my hands. His palms, callpused in parts and soft in others, were warmer than mine. I closed my fists inside the cocoon of his knotty fingers. I felt the uneven surfaces, the different textures. Our handholding lasted only a few second, but the sensation in my fingers persisted, as if he had left behind some message for me to retrieve later.
From The Naming Song, by Jedidiah Berry:
This was no longer like seeing something out of a story. They had fallen into story, and the story was old and very dangerous. All the monsters were giants now, the tallest of them brushing the clouds. They were creatures of storm and darkness, devouring the air, wreated in lightning. The warriors charged, and the antlered mask of their commander pierced the sky.
From “A Letter from Raghav,” the author’s note at the end of Raghav Rao’s novel, Missy:
It is my enduring belief that a book teaches readers how to read it. It organizes people, actions, objects, thoughts and accords them importance. The discerning reader is almost hyper-attuned, especialy in the opening twenty or fifty pages, trying to make sense of the philosophy and values of a new world. Over time, we learn the rules, our body settles, having learned the appropriate rhythm and logic, and we allow ourselves to be swept up in unfolding narrative.
