The third title in the Mer Chronicles series I’m writing – after Updrift (1) and Breakwater (2) – is Outrush; and I’m trying to set up a scene where my heroine, Maya, jumps off the Brooklyn bridge at the urging of her soon-to-be siren lover. Here’s where we’re at, folks:
Maya had always loved falling. Or maybe she craved the sensation of floating, since the biggest thrill happened before, not during, her descent. It was that soul-freeing catharsis at the apex of an arc, the half-second of suspension at the top of a bounce off a trampoline; or the heady, gravity-less moment after her launch from the seat of a swing she’d pumped too high. As a little girl she’d limped home with skinned knees and a bruised backside so often she’d been forbidden from that last practice, although she still connived her way to the playground every chance she got to swing and try to fly.
She blamed her father, Jeremy, for fostering this particular affinity starting when she was a toddler. Their play in the front yard was her earliest, most poignant childhood memory, where she was tossed in the air and caught, tossed and caught again, Jeremy’s strong hands propelling and releasing her with such force she thought she might travel up forever. The prospect almost – but not quite – terrified her as much as it titillated. Still, she chased whatever unknown awaited her at the top of her fling, a wild sort of joy building and building until fear threatened, fear she might be swallowed into some skyward abyss and become lost. And then in the instant before panic overtook her, she fell back to earth loose and weightless and happier than ever, her father’s embrace like an unexpected second dessert.
“Do it again, Daddy,” she begged breathlessly.