Mongrels

by Stephen Graham Jones

It made the world creak all around us, into a new shape. This moment we were standing in, it was a balloon, inflating. Inside of ten minutes, we’d

Texas was bad for werewolves.

In some book I’d read on my own, not for class, this old guy down on the Texas border had been described as having decades of sun folded into his face.

She moved like a water bird in the shallows, hunting frogs, and she moved so slow you could zone out, watching her, so that soon she would be walking through a dream you were having with your eyes open.

a woman who knew where the corner of the curtain of the world was, so she could pull it up, look behind, into the mysteries.”

“Always feed a wolf his fill,” the old woman quotes out loud, “lest you wake with your throat in his jaws.”