The ferry chugged from the mainland toward Martha’s Vineyard. Seduced by a cool breeze and sunlight refracting off the water, I stood on the deck, facing my destination, blurry and indistinct in the distance. A dozen hues of blue draped the sky.
Leaning against the guardrail, memories stirred in me, resurrecting the thrill that used to sweep from my scalp to my toes when crossing Puget Sound during the years I spent in Washington. My life has been a series of journeys. As one ends, another begins. This particular journey would be a short one; I’d come to Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing hoping to find a writing sanctuary, a place that gave birth to stories and buried alive the THOU SHALT NOT rules of literature.
It was an award for Samuel’s Wife, a short story, that led me to the conference. The story had recently been accepted…
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