Snap Studios. I locked my soul inside a box to keep it safe and sound. So when I did the evil things, my soul was not around.

When I grew old, I searched and searched,

the box I could not find, so I kept up my wicked ways. My soul, it didn't mind. Oh yes, you've crossed over to

Scoot. Stay tuned.

From K-Q and PRX, you've crossed over to Spoot. You're going to see. Through Michigan.

Steamy Summer Day, I'm seven years old in this huge cold perfect pond,

splash it around with a gaggle neighborhood farm boys and now we're gonna play

the who can touch that big red rock at the other end of the pool first game, Carl Hollers.

On your mark, you're set.

Go!

We burst off in a spray of water and laughing and hooting and hollering and I must think that I know how to swim.

I must believe this because I scramble after them.

Past the Bowie. I scramble after them, past the buoy, past the bright blue blow-up raft into the deep water,

and it's not until first one foot, then the other does not touch dirt.

And I inhale a big gulp of pond water that I understand with a shock, with the terror that I do not

know how to swim. The happy screaming, splashing races further and further away as I

flail, thrash too much water in my mouth to scream but I scream panic to the pond. To the murk

to the falling I scream thrashing kicking falling falling my lungs set to explode, falling until finally.

I inhale pond.

As the outside rises away and everything in my world, everything in the universe

rushes down on top of me. Smaller, the water turns away. Each and every one of my grass, my please gets smaller,

the world gets darker. Tiny, tiny until it's night. And my failing, my waving, my thrashing.

...