The Whiskey Sea

by Ann Howard Creel

moved her arms against water, then remembered. The ocean. The flight. The flames. No. Now her arms and legs would not move. She was drowning, falling into the cold depths. Below her, the pull of invisible arms and no light. A silence pure and dark. Her face

extracted the anchor and coaxed the engine to life, then slowly let the motor and tide take him home. Breathing in the familiar smells of fish and salt water, he nosed his boat into the row of mostly handmade and pieced-together craft of his fellow clammers. He heard the