In On the Edges of Vision, unease sounds itself in the language of
legend. Images call on memory, on the monstrous self. In Helen
McClory's daring debut short story collection, the skin prickles
against sweeps of light or darkness, the fantastic or the
frightful; deep water, dark woods, or scattered flesh in desert
sand. Whether telling of a boy cyclops or a pretty dead girl,
drowned sailors or the devil himself, each story draws the reader
towards not bleakness but a tale half-told, a truth half-true: that
the monster is human, and only wants to reach out and take you by
the hand.
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