Yay! This is my favorite weeknight. I get to spend 2 hours with old and new writer-y friends talking about writing, reading writing, and writing. Oh, and eating a cookie with my mug of tea. What's not to love?
April 28--Hainan Island, China. At the edge of the water a line of small boats nestled into the white sand. They had been pulled up in a precise line, each one next to the other; except for the numbers painted near the stern, they were identical. Eleven open wooden boats painted red around the top like open mouths waiting to come alive. As the sun rose the dew evaporated and Chang the boatman hurried to wipe the seats so that tourist wives and husbands more used to taxi cabs and secretaries could play at fishing. He could not count the times that he gave a bumbling man a hand so as not to let him appear unskilled in front of his family. Too many men lived their lives in glass and steel boxes with food bought in plastic boxes. They no longer went out to grow or catch their food. Chang wondered how they found their manhood since they lived so disconnected from the real parts of nature. He felt sorry for them.
Well, that didn't go where I thought it would, but I like it. I like Chang, he's old but strong.
--Barbara
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