Every monster was something else first.
In Dead Rabbits, grief grows antlers. Desire changes its skin. The miraculous arrives disguised as desire, and even the grotesque is granted dignity. Across these stories, bodies are remade by longing, devotion, terror, and impossible acts of tenderness, until the distance between the terrible and the transcendent begins to disappear.
Dillon writes from a world where transformation is ordinary and certainty is fleeting. Saints and beasts, lovers and ghosts, the living and the almost dead move through these pages with equal conviction, each discovering that survival rarely resembles salvation. Here, monsters take shape or take cover, and what is most strange is often what is most deeply human.
Rather than searching for redemption, Dead Rabbits lingers with those moments when the self gives way to something larger, stranger, and more difficult to name. Revelation is rarely clean. It arrives bloodied, laughing, hungry, carrying more than one truth at a time.
Written with equal devotion to the holy, the horrors, and the absurd, Dead Rabbits is a collection that asks not what we are, but what we continue to become.
