Sublime

temerarious

The detective and the dreamer cobble things together from whatever lies nearby,

She was the youngest of Hecuba’s large family, always running to keep up with her sisters, wailing the great cry of youngest children everywhere, “Wait for me! Wait for me!”

All we knew was our empty home. Our mother’s despair.

It’s just Sheryl, in an arbitrary flex of power.

This moment is evanescent, mere breath, for the gray hair and its attendant infirmities will soon come.

After

My old feeling of stunned abandonment (or perhaps at this point it was a monument to abandonment, a tower) fit any loss, regardless of size.

I was seeing before me again that rocky mass that had been Scylla. She was gone, truly gone. For the first time in centuries, I was not lashed to that flood of misery and grief. No more souls would walk to the underworld written with my name.