Here’s something I wrote:
The woman’s gloves reminded me of home, the sunset sky over Tampa Bay. My parents had lived as modern day pirates. They took me out on the boat with them sometimes, into the salt-burned wind, their big old sailor’s coats billowing and their bright hair waxed and still. Every time they went over the side, my heart stopped. Every time. They were there, and then they were gone. It didn’t matter how often I saw them go over. Or how often they climbed back. They plunged down into the dark, leaving my terror behind, and then they returned, their black hearts sated by the delicious flush of finding what others had lost: jewels, bones, ships, airplanes.
So far, I’ve rewritten two stories1. And written various bits of several other various stories which may or may not end up all being one big story. Sometimes that happens. You never know.
I love this podcast. I hope you give it a try, if you haven’t yet. And if you have tried, I hope you’re enjoying it.
Happy whatever day it is where you’re reading this.
- One of these stories being from 2009, and one of these being from 2016. It’s spectacular how sometimes you don’t really figure a story out for seven years. Perhaps, I mean terrifying. It’s hard to tell with words. They keep changing. ↩︎
- Will I mention this episode every time I post on a Wednesday? Probably not. ↩︎