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Albino (part one)

I began writing Albino two million years ago. I had an editor then, who lived a few blocks away. We would meet for breakfast on Avenue A, quietly forking into home fries as we discussed the structure of the story - the economy of objects. A dollar bill was not just a dollar bill in this story, it was connected to thought and action, to music and transformation. This was the story that told me there was a whole book to dig into, mining for diamonds in the backwaters of America, turning over the ugliest rocks to better understand relationships between fathers and sons.

Last week, I stumbled across a call for submissions - not for a journal, but for a podcast where the work of new writers was read aloud. I thought back to a reading I had done of just the first few pages of Albino - a messy hero's journey,  a young man and a guitar, a man with loss and regret, a man that still had something to lose. That reading went well, enough that I felt a strange elation stepping off the stage i…

an anniversary



A woman sat in the living room some years ago, practically a stranger. She shared the intimate details of a traumatic incident she had survived, an ongoing nightmare she could not have swerved to avoid. It hit her head-on. She had red hair, and freckles.
"At first, you are in the pool, barely treading water." She said. "Then, eventually you pull yourself out of the pool. Some years later, you can say there is a pool over there."
She pointed towards the windows when she said this last part.

The wound heals, but there will always be a scar.






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