Nothing's ripping, Bob, not diving, not writing. Seems like everything's at a standstill. I'm stuck in a slump. Grr. At least you and Jenny are putting some words on paper. I confess, I haven't read your story. I promise I will and bring my critique when I come back. Hey, did Lou ever come back?
The rain came down hard, slashing at the leaves of the oleander, swirling in the palm fronds. Mona stood, drink in hand, watching it pound the surface of the ocean. Absentmindedly she raised the glass and sipped, surprised when the ice cubes clattered into her teeth. Her inner voice kept repeating two words “Jack’s dead” over and over, sounding unreal. The hours she had spent in the police station being bombarded by Detective Inspector Rooibos’ gentle questions also seemed unreal. Her hand shook as she lowered the empty glass, the pale dawn light glimmering on the near solid curtain of raindrops that kept her on the patio.
--Barbara
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