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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…

with her

I am with her, long after the baby has gone to sleep. There is just the sound of the wind knocking branches against each other and that magnificent smell at the back of her neck. The bright skin of her shoulder glows in the darkness. This is all I really need. The rest falls away, evaporating into the dark sky beyond the windows.

There is the sound of her breath, maybe even her heartbeat or it could be mine. I cannot tell.


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