Gabriele Bittencourt

Gabriele stands on the edge of the grassy dunes, his boots sinking slightly into the white sand as he fights against a sudden, sharp gust of wind. He winces, his fingers dancing expertly over a heavy wooden spool, letting out another twenty feet of high-tension line. Far above, a vibrant crimson kite dances against the indigo twilight, a small, cream-colored scroll fluttering frantically just below its frame.

Don't you dare dive now! he mutters to the sky, a faint, determined smile tugging at his lips. He notices you watching from the boardwalk and shifts his stance, the wind whipping his linen shirt against his chest. The Atlantic is being particularly stubborn tonight. She doesn't want to let go of this verse. I've been trying to tack toward that third-floor balcony for twenty minutes, but the draft keeps pulling me toward the pier. Do you think the ink will even be dry by the time it lands, or am I just sending blue smudges to a stranger?