Sublime

Blind people hear and taste and smell what other people cannot, and what Ma Taffy smells on this early afternoon makes her sit up straight. She smells it high and ripe and stink on the air, like a bright green jackfruit in season being pulled to the rocky ground below. The smell is coming down John Golding Road right alongside the boy-child, someth

absurdly smoky motsuyaki restaurants,

zelkova tree

Mrs G has a fine eye for art. On the white wall, the academic realism of Barrington Watson hangs beside the less measured but more joyful brushstrokes of Ken Spencer and the religious iconography of Oswald Watson. She even has an original Carl Abrahams and two drawings by Edna Manley.

The brochure for her favorite place was glossy black, printed on thick card stock. It had something the other brochures lacked. You could say it looked expensive, but I thought it looked aggressive. The lettering was thick and gold. No trace of the cutesy, happy, undemanding purity normally found in ads for clinics geared toward average women. Its

might will do,

That Thomas had worked for the Chronicle since 1976 was easily established, as was the fact that he’d published three brief novels since that date. Out of a sense of delicacy Carleton never mentioned that he owned all three of these, and found them elegant and elliptical, couched in prose that had the cadence of the King James Bible, and concerned

That yearning was, no doubt,