Saint Simon wasn’t a plaster saint, and his Oblivion Oratory was not a church. But people filed in and out of the three-bay rowhouse on 9th Street as if from a basilica, singing his praises. Miracles were said to have been delivered from the dark innards of this ordinary sacred place, and the neighborhood’s devotion to the flesh-and-blood resident within was fierce and proprietary.
Short story in Speculative Fiction for Dreamers, September 2021
Sabrina Vourvoulias 