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Shooting Sunshine Chapter 1

Chapter 1 Manhattan, New York “I used to be Amish.”  The extra-hot, double shot, oat milk latte burbled in Darcy King’s stomach.  She clutched the cup in an over-caffeinated death grip, fearing any moment it would crumple and cascade coffee down her white cashmere sweater.  “At least my family was…back in the day.” Everyone—every editor and staff writer and editorial assistant and freelance photographer like herself and, oh yes, the terrifying Editor in Chief of Hudson Magazine, Margo Ricconi-Gladstone herself, stared.  Darcy shifted on the three-inch wide windowsill at the back of the conference room where she perched with the other freelancers lucky enough to gain access to editorial meetings and desperate to maintain that status.  She swallowed hard, tasting coffee and fear.  She’d been advised repeatedly to fly under the radar. Drawing attention to herself and in so doing, the ire of every senior staff member was not necessarily wise.  Some staff...
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  As I lay here beside his twelve-year-old body, I note, as I have so many other nights, the deep, even sounds of his breath. He’s laying on his back, arms sprawled out to the side like Christ on the cross. The backside of his hand is actually resting on my cheek and nose. His hand is soft and warm and I close my eyes so I can travel through time…   With my eyes closed, his hand could be twelve or six, or even two years old. And I enjoy the fantasy of traveling back in time and having had this experience of laying beside a healthy deeply sleeping Alex. I imagine tiny baby Alex laying beside me in bed with his hand on my face. And then the tears come. Because there was never such a night. And for a moment I lose contact with here and now and his sweet hand on my face, and my whole body tenses as the memory replaces the fantasy. His high pitched relentless wail, the way he would arch his whole body  I wonder how many parents have never even noticed their 12-year old’s b...
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Experimenting with my post from March

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