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Astraia Holmes, sister of Sherlock, is baffled by a series of bizarre and brutal murders committed by a dragon-like assailant, and desperately wishing to impress her brother and solve the crimes she teams up with a mysterious and brilliant young woman, Madeleine Barquist. Sherlock suspects an ancient malevolence at work and he fears for Astraia's safety. The signs point to a Chinese Dragon God Cult known as the Ya Zi, a warrior society originally formed two thousand years ago to assassinate enemies of the Emperor. Astraia is exultant to finally have a chance to use her own deduction skills, but Miss Barquist is fearful to meet the eye of Sherlock Holmes-for unknown to both Astraia and Sherlock, she is the daughter of Jack the Ripper, and unknown to them all, a dark and powerful evil is preparing to strike at the heart of London.A Prose Portion of "Dragon Ripper"Daintily, almost like a spirit, she glided beyond the frightening calligraphy to stand before the brick wall of Mr. Wu's building. Raising her lantern to the structure, she pointed her magnifying glass toward a section near the door. "What do you see here?" she asked, holding her glass implement to the wall as aid to my inspection.I followed her, not half so ethereal. I have always been a clodhopper of a girl. I stared through the lens at the wall."The brick has been gouged," I said, removing a glove to lightly run a finger along a furrow incised into the masonry."You see there are three grooves, in fact, each almost a foot in length, separated by approximately three inches at the left end of the gouge and closer to five inches distance from each other at the right end," she said. "Do you have any theories about what could have created them?""I have no idea," I said, moving my finger over the lowest furrow, carved perhaps a half-inch deep into the brick. "But I don't believe I saw them when I was here last week.""No, I don't expect you did," she said. "These gouges are fresh. You can see the brick dust from them on the ground, still unspoilt by the alleyway filth."I lowered my own lantern to examine the ground, and saw that she was right. "What type of instrument was used to make such delineations?" I asked. "A knife or sword?"

What else can there be but everything? And though we cannot consider all things at once, are we really able to bean-pick, to consider one single thing, one uncolored and utterly independent notion from that interconnected, cross-wired immensity? Minglements offers a small sampling of Renée Ashley's connections

Two teenage sisters--Bernadette, the explorer and skeptic; and Jane, the Christian optimist--engage in an unorthodox battle for the truth of their attack in the Australian bush. As they grow up, each seeks refuge in their own world: Bernadette in the maps and writings of the 19th century explorer Charles Stuart, Jane in her faith and teaching. Their parents, Audrey and Robert, unaware of what's happened, deal with their own break in the security of their marriage. Audrey copes by creating a button quilt, its patterns an intricate topography hinting at the family's secrets and betrayals, while, as a form of penance, their father inventories the buttons sent from all over the country by friends, strangers, and schoolchildren. As the quilt grows to epic proportions, and the years pass with the growing burden of what's unsaid, and denied, and hidden, each character bends the boundaries of time and memory to negotiate with the trauma that has separated them from themselves and each other.

What a strange and intense book this is! David Blair has a wild, restless imagination and he uses language like saw, a hammer, a velvet whip. He can write incredibly tender (and original) love poems and enfilading satirical poems, as well as many of the many other kinds of poems between those poles, and they all seem entirely at home, indeed, need to be in this book together. His music, his diction, his refusal to use (ever!) cliches, his syntax all drive his poems and their hearts forward. That is where his poems go: forward. He will be in the company of the best poets of his generation. --Thomas Lux Nothing can remain horizontal or vertical for long might as well be David Blair's mini ars poetica. A commitment to the pleasures and terrors of change, you might say. I have been reading Blair's poems for about ten years now--struck always by his unique pitch and tone, the tensile muscularity of his syntax and vibrational accents. His diction is totally unboxed. He reminds me a bit of August Kleinzahler or John Yau in this--a karaoke of urban hullabaloo sung slightly off the beat, all for the sake of swing....David Blair's acceptance of the world is signaled by his stylishness, provoked by the people and things he encounters. His brain knows that it's living in an animal body. And it moves among all these other minds and bodies in motion. Changed by the smallest of changes. Unbalanced but at ease. This poet's energy reminds me of Edwin Denby's comments about De Kooning's paintings from the 1930s: He wanted everything in the picture out of equilibrium except spontaneously all of it...a miraculous force and weight of presence moving from all over the canvas at once. These poems wantthat, too. --David Rivard, /Boston Review/ David Blair's work is both public and discreet, somewhere between black box theatre and a blind date with an utterly beguiling stranger. His poems are dinner parties, intimate and sumptuous, arranged with great care and yet full of unforeseen turns: the pope gives way to 'the first red coils of the peonies' and a the hair of a lost aviator becomes 'brown, fibrous light.' How refreshingly unlike contemporary poetry this book is; a pleasure. --D. A. Powell

In language at once candid and layered, calm and devastating, terrifying and gorgeous, the poems in Allegra Wong's first collection, A PURE BEAD, cut deep to the heart, reveal small and piercing dramas of human joy and suffering as if through a diorama's eye-hole. These vivid poem-worlds expand emotionally and intellectually; give off shocks; attract, disturb, unsettle, and finally allow a tender and profound beauty to emerge. Here is nothing less than the complex, psychologically accurate world of humankind. Put your eye to these dioramas: you won't be able to stop looking. By rendering humans in extremis, the poems in Allegra Wong's A PURE BEAD find out the human heart in all its contradictory nature. In every poem, there are images that stop your breath, drop as if into still water, and form circles that spread wide, reach far. A PURE BEAD is a pure gift to the reader: stunning language and masterful craft in the service of human truths. --Joan Houlihan These poems, by turns (and sometimes simultaneously) horrifying and extraordinarily tender, make a powerful case for the way elegant structure, haunting images, and vivid, beautifully controlled language can transform even the most appalling subject matter into compelling and unforgettable art. At its sweetest and most touching, Allegra Wong's A PURE BEAD never lapses into sentimentality; and even at its most disturbing, it's a joy to read. --Lloyd Schwartz

Winner of the Del Sol Press 2005 Poetry Prize, David Ray Vance's poetry collection combines science and art gloriously. Mary Jo Bang, the Prize Judge, has this to say about VITREOUS: "Part rewritten 1934 medical text, part Keatsian reflection, this is the logical offspring of the long-awaited meeting of science and art; a marriage of equals where each half maintains its primary allegiance: the poetic to the common lyrical language of emotion and memory, the medical to its narrowly appropriated lexicon of intraocular, cornea, and Placido's disc. Mr. Vance has woven these two competing word streams into a meditation on sight and risk. Think of it as an item in the cupboard of the scientifically sublime. Think of Ronald Johnson's ARK. VITREOUS is utterly fascinating in its reach, and exquisitely tender. And important, because it answers again today's recurrent question, Can form be further broken and still be a poem? The answer (of course) is yes." * "The Korean character for "citizen" is based upon the image of an eye pierced by an arrow. The citizen, thus, is one whose vision has been wounded by the state; how can we see clearly when we're in the midst, in the thick of things? David Ray Vance's startling and rewarding debut is a kind of exhibition--a virtual museum of poetic and found texts--concerned with the vulnerability of the eye, the I's aperture, the world's window, the self's permeable edge." --Mark Doty "VITREOUS dazzles in the way the first pictures of the earth must have dazzled. This amazing collection exists in the vast distance between the body and the body perceived. Each poem makes alien both the form and function of our most essential organs through its innate understanding that we will succumb as easily to pollutants as we do to that caressing hand on our cheek. David Ray Vance, in this stunning book, offers a clinical yet intimate look at our modes of perceiving our haunting and vulnerable physicality." --Claudia Rankine