Sea Island Murders

The Tide's Slender Fingers

You can't avoid its creep. The gentle push of the black sands. The muck swaddles and threatens the truth.

Here lies the few who fell not far from Sturgeon Bank. The tide reaches in desperation to blanket in brine. Herons stand idle in the lapping drool with a bewildered smirk.

Iona Sunset


The beach darkens, thick like crude, bathed in a stale glow off the pillowy canopy. A decrepit trailer wields a stench of rot. Creosote fights through the gaps with its own burning redolence. The hum of tug engines bounce off the river's farthest bank.

Last Breath

On a barge of sawdust


Street scenes.

Garbage-adorned tangles of blackberry and scotch broom.

A broken


Cracked wooden teeter-totter. Rusted merry-go-round. Knotted swings.

Shanty town

At the end of the runway

Ships ahull in the river awiting departure at dawn.

Nothing Burns

It's too damp here

The earth packed with tar and oxidized iron.

En Masse

The tide and the shadows work in tandem tonight