Back to Jack

At first, the closeup of a seashell stumped me, but then I thought about how it feels and, look, writing!

She ran her thumb over the surface of the shell in her pocket. The tiny ridges and whorls like a fingerprint, each little bump and dip were the only things that felt real to her. Events had spiraled so out of control, out of her control that if it weren’t for the little scrap of shell nestled in a teaspoon of sand in the pocket of her shorts she would run screaming into the night. It wasn’t supposed to be like this, her life was meant to be calm, serene even. She had played by all the rules, upheld her end of the cosmic bargain--kept herself trim, informed, well groomed. She cultivated an interest in art and finance, even though at first the numbers and their antics had seemed like a foreign language. But she had persevered, had spent time with her nose in books, magazines like Barron’s, even subscribed to the Wall Street Journal for a while which she considered a kind of grad course in companionship. “His companion” that’s what he called her. At first there had been a warm intimate caress in his voice when he said it that made her happy to hear it, but lately there was a sharp, almost disgusted, note to his voice that made her want to take a shower. It had been hours since he left in the minivan taxi on some unspecified mission. He didn’t tell her where he was going or why. It had been nearly one hour since the island policeman had come to the door to tell her that they had fished a body out of the sea on the northern end of the island, a body with Jack’s ID in its pocket. Where was Jack? the policeman asked her fifteen different ways in his low honeyed island voice. If it weren’t for the little scrap of seashell in her pocket she would be screaming.

See you Thursday, critique in hand. And, Bob, sometimes (okay, all the time), you have to write the "weepy crap" to get to the good stuff. Keep scribbling.
--Barbara