The Fisherman

by John Langan

His grief had taken him far into a country whose borders are all most folks ever see, and from where he was, caught up in that dark land’s customs and concerns, what I was worrying over sounded so foreign I might as well have been speaking another language.

For her to attack him here, the last bastion of his pride and self-respect, is the kind of betrayal of which only someone you love is capable.

She lost him to light the color of the full moon, of the froth on top of a wave, of a burial shroud.