Red Iron Ink Stories
I’m reviving my James River City Project, in the decided form of short stories.
I want it to be published when it’s done, and I want your stories. Stories about, inspired, or around Richmond. Fictional or non, historical or contemporary. You have strong voices, and you have stories that need to be told and heard.
Send them to me.
The storms are coming early this year—good thing I pulled my seedlings in before they drowned. The rock that is supposed to hold the balcony door open failed, and nearly shut me out in the driving rain and wind. Lucky I caught it in time.
Now sirens wail through the streets (I thought I heard a man shout before). I’ve already been out walking in one hurricane this past year, I’m not sure I’m ready for another just yet.
But the thunder makes my bones sing in harmony anyway, and I feel the crack-snap rumble in my veins. I can taste ozone in the air left behind from the lightning—a red iron, like in blood hot from the skin. It hasn’t been washed away yet, but its still the sweetest thing I’ve tasted all day.
And the storms move steadily out to the sea.