Stories reveal what life seldom divulges. When I write, I garner a glimpse of what I might have otherwise missed: The beach was empty, even of shells—except for the pale blond woman stretched out long on the sand and two brown children playing next to her.
I write for that woman, for what she sees and what she doesn’t see: A tall white figure fluttered onto the horizon. She squinted at it with no real interest, as the sun and sea behind it blurred its edges until it resembled a hazy soft-focus photograph. She looked away as if it hurt her eyes to take in so much white.
I write to marvel at unheralded serendipity: It was a young man, with blond hair nearly as white as his clothing and skin tanned so brown it looked painful around the edges. As he got closer to the woman, an expression of…
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