Adran Brown rocked back and forth in his ancient, wooden chair. He sat under the moonlight on his porch, breathing in the coastal Maine wind, and tried to count the number of rocks on the harbor. “Yep,” he said to no one in particular. “Yep, yep, yep, yep.” He took a deep swig of a murky brown liquor and rocked forward to perch the glass on the porch railing. With his free hand he reached inside his pocket.

The wind raced through the half-barren Maine pine trees, stuffing his match before it had a chance to course through the tobacco pipe. “Dammit all,” Adran blurted, as he reached into his pocket to grab another match. With a deft flick his wrist he had his pipe bellowing thick tobacco smoke which the wind promptly carried away in listless tendrils.

He rose from his favorite rocking chair and stared at the dark blue ocean. “What a beautiful tide,” Adran declared. He looked to the floor at the blood dripping through the wood planks of his porch.

“And,” he added, “what a beautiful, beautiful girl.”