Time stole you from underneath the goldendock. Writhing there, slick as a flapping tongue;lips gored, red, whose gaping could embolden weak hands behind the blazing buck blade, long ago pierced in your summer quietus, beneath the soft shade of a tackle box, as the…

...cause these oysters were the most famous oysters in the world but no more now, that was years before, in our grandfathers' tuxedo times...

My father is remarkably clever. That is, for a rundown, henpecked fisherman. He has caught me again. He has me slung over his back in a rickety lobster trap and I can hear him huffing and the water in him sloshing and though I can't see his face, I imagine it is ruddied…

I own this property. You can't camp here. No camping allowed.

The explosions sound like gunshots. Antonio Gattorno, absorbed in his work, flinches. He curses as he smears the brush across the canvas. He’s been painting since mid-morning. It‘s a hot summer day. Tomorrow is the fourth of July.

Snap! Dylan’s arms flung forward as the rod bent toward the ocean. “Holy God! What did I snag?

Emma Louise is walking over a concrete bridge when she spies, out of the corner of her eye, a man fishing, waist deep, in the river tumbling below. She is thinking that the water must be very cold on this autumn day, when she sees an extraordinary thing.

When the government cut off the money stream to Kentucky's highway department due to sequestration, a term no one understood, Pete got furloughed one day a week. His crew buddies called the pay cut “see-castration.”