Fiction

Whenever that question, “where’re ya from,” invariably arose among the transients and tourists alike thrust together in the service industries of vacation towns, Amelia named the nearest beach growing up and, if pressed, focused on its endless shores and bioluminescent waves that at night glowed like simmering aquamarine flames.

I’m not a violent person, OK?

We discover our ghost selves one Saturday night while sneaking sips of tart-as-cherry pinot noir, the bottle stolen from Renata’s parents’ wine supply, hidden in the cabinet above the fridge.

Matthew may have been near ignorant when it came to sailing, but it didn’t take a yachtsman to figure out he had forgotten the part where you insert the drain plug before putting the boat in the water.