High atop a cliff by the seaside, a fire pit fought off the autumn chill beside a rune-carved cairn. Six village boys sat cross legged on reed mats.

"Beyond the great beyond lies the frontier. And in the frontier you will claim your manhood. Boys, if you return, you will be men. If you do not return, then you will be considered lost." The wrinkled, sun-bronzed elder gestured at the great stone. "These are the names of the lost. Mourn them as the Seafather mourns them. Tomorrow your trial begins."

Vikar let his eyes skim the list of names that spiraled down the stone. There, his rune: two insets curved esses: Tikar, his brother. Two years ago he had ventured out to the frontier when his time had come. He had not returned.

Tikar had taught him to shoot a bow, and to fell the kestrels that prowled the drying racks from the air. He had taken him hand fishing in the tidal pools after their Pa had broken his leg and before the Seafather had called him to the depths. He had taught him the rune for his own name: a horizontal line, two forked slashes at the ends, two dots above. It was also the name for crab.

Tikar had always said he must think like a crab. Scuttle and scamper. Know when to fight. That's what would help him pass the trials in the frontier. Tikar's name was also the rune for eel. Stealthy, clever, and resourceful. That was his brother. Why hadn't he returned?

The elder planted a sandaled foot beside Tikar. "You worry for your brother. This is good. And this is bad. You must focus on the frontier - put these thoughts from your mind." With a gentle pat on the head, the elder shuffled off leaving Tikar by himself; the sea breeze and the wood smoke his only companions. He still thought of his brother -and setting out on the trials.

Sleep slipped through his fingers like an anemone's tendrils. Just as his brother two years earlier, he finished all his chores, checked and rechecked his supplies, then sat up all night staring at the crescent moon and the gentle swell of the sea. As dawn broke, he planted a soft kiss on his mother's forehead and whispered a prayer to the Seafather. Then he picked his way down the cliff side to the great lagoon.

The boats were simple: two oars, oarlocks, a tiller, a single mast and sail of stitched and oiled canvas. The lone bench doubled as a watertight chest, into which Vikar placed his supplies. With a furtive glance at the rising sun, and a more meaningful, lingering glance at his mother's home he set off.

Oars in locks, knot untied, Vikar pulled against the sea. Soon he had passed the safety of the breakwater, and the waves churned against his small boat. He pulled in the oars and raised the sail up the mast, placed his hand on the tiller and sailed on to the great beyond, and then to the frontier. "Seafather, accept this offering. Bless this craft as we cross your body." Vikar spat into the water.

The day was cool and clear, and promised good weather. Vikar checked his map and his compass, and saw that his aim was true, and his bearing was right. And then, with nothing else to do, he sat upon his chest and tried his best to guess what awaited him.

It was forbidden in his village to speak of the frontier, that sacred pilgrimage that all men ventured to, and yet only so few would return from. How could one prepare for it? Vikar did not see, but felt, and did not hear, but believed, that the frontier was a dangerous thing, and he had no bravado that he would conquer it, or even survive it. After all, his brother, the more skilled of the two, had not yet returned. In some part of him, he was beginning to prepare for his own death.

Later, Vikar caught his dinner, as the setting sun cast warm orange and red, like the underbelly of a dying beast, splayed and refracted across the waves, and spears of green light, flashing through the veil of darkening blue. Two fish, one of brilliant red scales, long and thin like a serpent, a fish he had never seen before. Believing it to be a sign of the gods, he let the first fish go. The second was a dark flounder, and this he ate raw, its meat pure and white, and he drank from the fresh water that pooled in the small cavities that lay beneath the eyes, where the sea water had been purified and was cool and sweet tasting.

That night, he dreamt of a wooden pole, rising out of the ocean. And on it was the carved face of the Seafather, its eyes hollow, and the language inscribed on its body, the old tongue, the language of the shaman and the birds of the sky, and the beasts of the earth. In his dream, he had passed the pole slowly, in a calm sea of solitude, unbearably quiet, except for the whistling that came from the carving. When he looked closer, he saw small holes, no bigger than a pinprick, carved into the sea beaten wood, and some covered by the barnacles and vegetation that clung desperately to it. When there was a breeze, there was a whistling too, and just as Vikar reached out his hand to touch the Seafather totem, he was awoken by a flash of light, and the sight of lightning striking the midnight sea, to create an intricate web of light that spread across the surface of the ocean like burning flame.

The thunder near deafened him. All of everything had become a maelstrom of wind and rain, the distinction between sea and sky, faded in the night, and the wall of rain and salty spray struck him, and lashed, clinging to his skin, and all the world was a long moment of water and movement, him moving to take down his sail, and to steer the rutter that twisted wildly from his hand.

And it occurred to him, that he was in the sea as it was, a giant mouth, and him resting on the blanket of its tongue, to be swallowed and devoured by this great and living thing, showing all the violence in the world, and all the violence in himself, eating away at his boat, and eating away at him. And in the distance, where there once were the beautiful stars of the night, unnumbered and layered in a crepuscular curtain of starlight and wanton beauty, there was a great black mass, the mountain complete, descending upon him. Truly, it was a wave made massive, and it blocked out everything in sight, and in his last moments of consciousness, as the wave came down upon him, he saw pale and dim whites, and he figured them to be the eyes of deep-sea fishes, pulled into the wave from their deepest depths, and there to feast upon him, a hundred hungry ghosts, and then a thousand more. And finally, darkness.

Vikar first felt what should not have been, the firmness of his boat, what should surely have been dashed to pieces from the storm, and yet was solid beneath his back, the wood rough beneath his fingers, and gently rocking, its body as if held on the thread of a single string, and its sides moving to and froe, and to and froe, like a cradle built well, or the first embrace ever received, the one in which all creatures must believe will last their whole life over, a calmness felt in half remember arms, of one familiar, matronly face, cradling him all those years ago.

And the second was the sight of the great vault of the sky, staring back down upon him. A vastness of blue, wide and open, and its depth unknown and unknowable, but seemed as if to last all the world over, and much more than as small a thing as Vikar, could ever know. The white clouds that drifted across its surface, sailed idly, and if no one had been there to see them, in this strange, strange place, then the clouds would hardly know that they were moving, for such was the nature of wanderers, to move and to never be quite moving anywhere, and to be, without giving any thought to being.

Vikar pulled himself upright, and scanned the blue world he had been drifting into, a sea of such weight, that it seemed as though vaster, and wider than the sky, and upon looking over the side of his boat, he saw a sea that was clearer than glass, and reflected all of the sky, and all of the clouds, and he himself, in a perfect image, still and stagnant, no wind brushing over its waves, and no sun to dominate its image. It was a blue that was unending, and its depth too, was unending, and such was its clarity, that Vikar could see well into it, thousands of leagues below, and still find no bottom, no rocky shore that loomed in impenetrable darkness, no pool of white sand, stirring and shifting in the quiet currents. So too, there was no life to be seen, no fish, and no reef.

And Vikar had the most peculiar fear, that if he continued to look upon this reflection of him, so true in its making, and so much like him, as if it had captured his soul in its motion and trapped it beneath its polished surface, then Vikar would soon be unable to tell which of him was real, and which was a reflection. Behind him, Vikar saw that the sea had moved unnaturally. His boat, gliding tranquilly, smooth through the water, had left a great divot, like his boat had been pushed through sand, and the water did not rush to fill in the gap, but stayed parted, and stayed still. And Vikar dipped his finger into the water, and felt a lightness like that of air, buoyant and pure, and pulling his finger out, it remined completely dry, except for a single drop, that sat like a stone upon the tip.

And holding it to his eye, he saw that within that drop was a thousand upon thousands of strands of bounded light, tremulous, shaking and quivering and bright. And though there was no sun, there was such an extraordinary lightness, that the concept of night would disappear completely from Vikars memory, if only he stayed, watching this landscape, that seemed more akin to painting than reality. And Vikar believed that if he only left his boat, then he would be able to walk upon the water, and be supported in all his weight, and walk for miles upon miles upon miles, in an endless pursuit to an end, with only his footsteps behind him to serve as the reminder, to the leap of faith he had taken all those years ago.

But Vikar did not leave his boat. For his people were a superstitious people, and in that moment, he knew, that he was no longer in the world of men, and that if he forgot the trials and trivialities of humanity here, then he would never be able to return to them. Instead, he felt a great peace come upon him, and as if reacting to this change in him, the great renascence that stirred and unspooled itself within his spirit, the leaping, dancing joy that seemed to outstretch from his innermost thoughts, and extend outward into the world, travelling that vast distance in a single bound, and returning to him, like all sea birds returning home, the sky itself changed in tumultuous emotion. In red and yellow divine, Vikar watched great movements of time, passing over each other, and rolling over each other, like immeasurable waves of all of human kindness, and all of the memories of the earth and further still, the very essence of the soul, stretch and turn itself into a great show of emotion and color. Vikar than, had the great desire to leap from his boat, and to drown amongst this placid pool, and reach completion within the sky, and completion beneath the sea, losing all that he was, and disappearing into that mild blue.

And the sea remained blue, and the sky receded to fit the color of the sea, and there was once again an eternity of calm blue. In fact, the only thing that broken the distance, was the bottle that sat buried in the surface of the sea, strange it was to him, that a substance could cover the bottle like sand, and yet lap and quiver, ever so slightly against the sides of the glass. In not much more than an hour, Vikar had gotten close enough that he could reach his hand down, and pull the bottle from the sea, giving a little give, and taking what he took gingerly, and with great sincerity. For he knew this bottle was meant for him, and upon further inspection, the message that sat within it, well that message had surely been left for him to read.

And this is what it said,

“To my brother, Vikar. Go forth, and be good. I have lived this life as a man, and I am sorry my brother, my dearest brother, for I will live as a man no longer. In this wonderful place, I could not find the heart to leave, and like a thing of the deep, swimming to the coast, I have found myself caught in its net, and I cannot free myself. I have walked for many miles, and following my footsteps back, I returned to my boat, only to find that there is truly nothing. And yet, I cannot help the pull that is pulling me, and I have decided to leave this form behind, and to jump into the depths, and see the sea as it was meant to be seen. I know I will not return. When I try and find the words to tell you why, why I am abandoning you, why I am leaving you to face this world alone, all on your own, I can only think of our names. And I think of how brave the crab is, braving the beach and the birds, scurrying and fighting, with all its pride, no matter how small it is. And I think of an eel, hiding in the dark. And I suppose I could not take the humanity of being a human, here at the heart of the ocean, where there is no tedium, there is no struggle, only this perfect blue, that which I have been drifting into. And I know now why this place is called the frontier, for this is the true frontier, the frontier of heaven and earth, lying in the center of the sea. I do not think I will find my way to the surface; I do not think I will see you again. But my brother, do not try and follow me, for this is what all men of the village must decide. To live, or to run from living. And Vikar, you must live. You must go forth, and you must be good, for all the love in the world, and all the love you have in life, and all the love you will one day receive, it is the bed in which weary men rest their hearts, and it is the place you will rest yourself. It is the greatness that great men strive for, and all the good that good can be. Without it, there is nothing left. So leave here Vikar, and be free from this ocean of cowards, and go forth to the sea that is truly endless and truly free. All the love I had in this life Vikar, it has been for you, my brother. Farewell, my brother. My dearest brother. Farewell.

Vikar did not wail, for there was no one to hear that broken sound, breaking the calm. And Vikar did not weep, for there was no one to see the sea, dotted with tear drops, scattered upon its surface. And Vikar did not feel betrayed, and angry, and painfully small, afraid to return, afraid to go forward, afraid to jump into the sea. And so too, he was not feeling the full weight of conscious, and the full weight of his existence, and cursing himself, and cursing his life, that he had been born as a human, with all the thoughts of a human, and not born as a crab, scurrying in little lines, all across a beach, and all across the sea.

And Vikar pushed himself with his oar, off the sea, and into the sea, following the divot left in his boat, and drawing another, perpendicular to the first. His journey was over. He set himself homeward.

The boat gently nudged the shore, a grassy outcropping of mangrove roots and fish nurseries, that which he recognized as the island he had grown up on. And above him, dark green leaves hung and swayed in the morning breeze, all his childhood strung upon their eaves, and in time, some would fall into the lap of his memory, and Vikar would look back upon them, then well into his adulthood, of his journey to the frontier, and the perfect heaven he had seen, and the perfect heaven he had left. The leaves have fallen and died, and they are replaced by new growths. The shadows that dapple the water, however, still remain.

Intro to J & Valjean's Co-written Story (I warned you, I am bad with titles)

"I think just having the want to write is enough for me to try right now, and the want has always been there, so I'm going to attempt at not overthinking it.” (J to Valjean)

The following selection of short fiction is the result of two participants in a letter exchange who were paired together randomly not overthinking the writing process. J and Valjean are both writers, both have submitted works for publication, both are or were collegians. Both are currently at very different places in their lives. However, both truly love the writing process, and exploring different ways to tell stories and communicate complex themes.

"I've cowritten two short stories with a friend of mine. We would alternate every 500-700 words and begin each story with zero planning... And when one person is drawing a blank, or feels like his work isn't fresh anymore, there is someone to pick up the slack." (Valjean to J)

"I've been trying to find something new, something that I should do differently than before. I guess I'm just searching for a change, a way in writing that is loose, and prioritizes how it's being read just as much as what is being read, but it's all very abstract still, and I haven't yet figured out how to actually write in such a way." (J to Valjean)

As a final project, J and Valjean elected to collaborate and cowrite. With the delays in communication they faced with an exchange of letters, they decided that rather than have a brainstorming session, a first draft, and further discussions about plot, theme, and setting, they would instead have one partner begin the story and the other finish it. This method of story generation is certainly not uncommon with writers' circles and as a method of creating fresh, new ideas. Neither J nor Valjean had ever attempted it over a long distance.

"Publishing, taking leaps, living life, it's all the same. I think it's just a matter of whether you're willing to experience it." (J to Valjean)

This style of writing - entrusting an incomplete work to another person, completing another person's work, trusting in one's partner, having the confidence to write quickly and with depth of emotion - requires taking a bit of a chance. That trust in one's partner to either set up a great ending or to close out a strong open requires taking a leap. This story bridges not just the two worlds in which J and Valjean live, but a third - the world created in the pages of the story itself. In this space, between the nuts and bolts of storytelling, J's and Valjean's worlds come together. The places they are in life merge briefly. Like the letter exchanges in which they participated, this space allows the growth of new, deeper understandings. If something as simple as writing weekly letters to one another and cowriting a story can bring two strangers together, imagine how much more connection can be experienced with broader, grander gestures.

-A forward by Valjean