“Let me fix it,” he whispered. “Let me make it right. It isn’t too late for us.” His lips were familiar on hers. She kissed him back, her mouth as hungry as the wolves outside.

In old St. Augustine, a house with cracking paint and broken shutters sags under the weight of its roof and is almost hidden by ancient oak trees that drip Spanish moss. The townsfolk warn us kids not to ride our bicycles there. They say the house is vacant and use the word condemned as if it should impress—but I know the truth because I’ve been inside.

The numbing wind bit through the fur on Naluto’s ears. He turned them down, tucking the fur clad leathers close to his body for warmth. An attempt that proved futile for the […]

But the sea does not let go and she was part of the sea. She was drawn again and again to the harbor’s edge, trailing her fingers through the foam. She held fistfuls of wet sand in her pockets. The hems of her skirts were stiff with salt. She smelled my father’s hands when he came home, pressing her face into the brine and the tang of the halibut that lived in the crease of his palms.