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“Morning! Going up to the lake today. Come with!” I read the text from my friend Grace as I ran on the treadmill. Puffing a bit as I finished the fifth and last mile, I mentally reviewed my to do list for the day. A day at the beach sounded much more fun than tackling the mountains of laundry waiting for me in the laundry room. Without a qualm for the guilt my flashing-neon-to-do list was trying to inflict upon me, I gleefully abandoned my plans for a chore day.

“beach sounds great. Time? Who else is going?” My hands were shaking a bit from my run so it took me a few times to get the text right. I am forever sending typos. The auto-correct feature doesn’t help. In fact, it sometimes results in rather Freudian-like slips.

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Leaving your mark in the sand

The sun hardly reaches all the way down here. The rough stone walls are set in dim but warm light and even though it's terribly hot outside, down here the air feels cool. “Where are we?” he asks. The woman that brought him here doesn't answer. She's turned away. Her hand runs over the cold stone of what might be some kind of coffin. Did she bring him to a grave? Without turning around, she replies, “Where do you think?” “It’s too big to be a commoner's. And if my instinct is correct,...

Leaving your marks in the sand

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