Sublime

For years, Mayra floated on the surface of my mind until, waterlogged, she finally sank to the bottom. Here she was again, risen from the deep, all smile and bite.

Easily, he slept; and as he slept, the woman in the photograph took her arm from the pastor’s waist, and crossed the parched lawn towards the camera. Her black skirts, thickly beaded at the hem, obscured the view of Bethesda; then her fine and muddied boots came over the frame, and were first set squarely on the table, then one by one on the floor:

“Where are you going to stay in Paris?” “The Montalembert.

Belong Anywhere,”

I was experiencing that terrifying thing of suddenly seeing someone you know terribly well as if for the first time.

April was now twenty, and because she was truly sympathetic to the human condition, she was besieged by a band of stars and handsome devils, who came to her when life for them stayed too glamorous for too long and didn’t seem real. Eventually, April went to sea and became a sailor.

On another night of searching, a centuries-old academic journal yielded a reference to a Gaspery J. Roberts. The journal had been devoted to prison reform. The hit sent Olive down a rabbit hole, at the end of which she found prison records from Earth: Gaspery J. Roberts had been sentenced to fifty years for a double homicide in Ohio in the late twe

Jason was twenty-one now. He worked at a bar. He still lived with Holly