Sublime

synecdoche

“Dezzy!” Tovah said, recognized the girl now. She sank to a knee, which was not only the proper way to address children but a nifty evasive maneuver vis-à-vis their crypto-creepy progenitors.

A weird isolated memory of summertime gnats knitting the air above the shaggy animal-head of a neighbor’s topiary hedge.

her mother writhed inside Lydia. She steeled herself with

fugacious

from hat to shoe

the first story that, as he later put it, “rang his cherries” was Donald Barthelme’s “The Balloon.”

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