Three ex-patriates in modern-day Thailand encounter a figure from fairy tales.
Cat gives an overview of the book:
Trevor, Ivory, and I were sitting by the river, the awning of woven grass that had shaded us from the fierce Thai sunlight now blocking out the clustered evening stars. The restaurant's bug screen was working overtime. You'd hear the almost subsonic whine whenever an insect hit it, making a shrill counterpoint to the jungle noises: birds squawking, the trees' hollow rattle, the drip and drop of moisture from the leaves.
Trevor had scored a lump of hash as big as my thumb; a curl of gold leaf marked its side, and we were working on making it smaller. A hookah sat on the rattan table, and we used my pocketknife to shave bits from the surface and pack the bowl. The smoke was sweet and rich as homemade cake batter, and I had a solid buzz going.
Trevor's lighter sparked in the evening darkness. The candle lamp on the table was nearly dead. We were killing time, all three of us. The waning moon was high and misshapen, and its blaze danced like a guttering candle on the cups of the waves, a foamy gleam barely visible.
We were still and stoned. Hash, good hash, doesn't make you feel stupid or sleepy. Just remote. Remote from the world, deaf to the cries of the vendors, the blare and growl of traffic, and the distant thump-a-thump of the Banana Disco.
From the river came a sound of splashing as though something enormous were thrashing in the water.
John Barth described Cat Rambo's writings as "works of urban mythopoeia" -- her stories take place in a universe where chickens aid the lovelorn, Death is just another face on the train, and Bigfoot gives interviews to the media on a daily basis. She has worked as...