
I was halfway through reheating yesterday’s chowder when the first buoy pinged. It wasn’t unusual — equipment hiccups, rogue currents, barnacle interference. What caught my attention was the rhythm: dot-dot-dot, dash-dash-dash, dot-dash-dot….

It started raining apples on a Tuesday. Not metaphorical ones, not the kind you make mental jam with later.
He leaned back again, weary. “I used to love flying. Missed the school bus? I didn’t borrow Dad’s pickup or sprint like a bullet. I launched myself into the sky. But there was less up there then. Fewer obstacles.”