Kelly Link Is Inimitable. Her Stories Are

Only The Ship Is Made Of Books, Its Sails Thousands Of Overlapping Pages, And The Sea It Floats Upon Is Dark Black Ink.

Could You Do Such Things When You Were A Dancer?' Tara Asks Her, As Tsukiko Pulls A Leg Up Impossibly Far Over Her Head. 'i Would Have Had A Much Busier Social Calendar If I Could,' Mme. Padva Replies With A Shake Of Her Head.

Sometimes I Write What I Can't Paint, And I Paint What I Can't Write. I Use A Different Part Of The Brain.

I Draft Quickly And Then Revise, A Lot.

Trapped In Silence, Marco Traces Apologies And Adorations Across Celia's Body With His Tongue. Mutely Expressing All The Things He Cannot Speak Aloud. He Finds Other Ways To Tell Her, His Fingers Leaving Faint Trails Of Ink In Their Wake. He Savors Every Sound He Elicits From Her. The Entire Room Trembles As They Come Together. And Though There Are A Great Many Fragile Objects Contained Within It, Nothing Breaks.