She stabs, and Achilles’ body dodges the deadly point, impossibly lithe, endlessly agile. Always, its muscles betray it, seeking life instead of the peace that spears bring.

Zeus’ thunderbolts still smell of singed flesh and patricide.

It is the only memory I have of my mother and so golden that I am almost sure I have made it up.

“I am sure he will be back soon,” she said. Her words were like new leather, still stiff and precise, not yet run together with use.

Exile might satisfy the anger of the living, but it did not appease the dead.

Older, larger, and unpleasantly fleshy.

I have heard that men who live by a waterfall cease to hear it

When he speaks at last, his voice is weary, and defeated. He doesn’t know how to be angry with me, either. We are like damp wood that won’t light.

After all, it was unlikely for my father to have allowed us to be alone together, his simple son and simpler wife. And where are we? I do not recognize the beach, the view of coastline. So much has passed since then.