He was oblivious, as was everyone else on the fishing pier, that twenty or so feet below him the baited hook of his line was skimming the body of a woman. With each push and pull of the waves, the floating tackle danced some sort of ethereal ballet.
Clasped by shards of pilings and spiky barnacles, it seemed that the pier itself had snagged its own catch. And it relentlessly held on to it by the clothing it wore.
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish