The story held Reader Dan captive. He shook his legs and rotated his neck. He needed to walk away and digest the story line, but the make believe world sucked him in completely. After all, a good story elicits gasps and giggles, tears and white knuckles. Storylines worm their way through brain cells rendering the reader incapable of other activity until the satisfying conclusion. Dan indulged his imagination. He grabbed Popchips and went back to the novel.
Writer Dan, though, died a little at the end of each chapter. He knew full well that he’d never match such excellent standards.
It was the day before my seventh birthday. I was in Puerto Rico where my grandparents watched over me while my mother, far away in New York, delivered my baby brother. The New York landscape exuded grayness with its tall buildings, concrete pavements and elevated trains. Puerto Rico exuded life, its air pregnant with the greenest greens and azure skies. On my seventh birthday, though, trees bowed in every direction and shook their leaves. Midday darkened. Winds howled. Hurricane Faith swept across the island. Today I remember the fear I buried long ago as Hurricane Irma barrels across the Atlantic.