A Story Lives Here

I once sat on a weatherbeaten wooden dock jutting out into a North country pond. The water was so clean, we drank it. There were brown bass swimming below me and wild huckleberries on the shoreline. We would pick the berries. My mother would make pancakes from them. You will never find pancakes more delicious no matter what up-scale breakfast restaurant you find on a hip travel website.

There is an old restaurant here – where I live – that makes real blueberry pancakes. I won’t tell you its name. You’ll have to hear the location on Dust Radio – you know, the radio you play in an old car, on a dirt road, with the barren horizon circling clear around you.

One early morning I sat on the dock and watched the bass nudge the dock posts. One iridescent green dragonfly landed on my bare leg – then a red one, then a purple, a blue, another green. I sat for at least an hour while the dragonflies took off and landed, took off and landed, then took off and were gone.

Now, I send out Breakthrough Tips and Prompts like dragon flies and have no idea where they land.

Prompt: Send me a few paragraphs of your own miracles. Tell me what you want to learn. Remind me that to be a writer is to live in a web.