Letter From The Editor - Issue 69 - June 2019

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Issue 34
What the Sea Refuses
by Brian Dolton
by Christian K. Martinez
Portraits from the Shadow
by D. Thomas Minton
Three Seconds
by Jonas David
Oyster Beach
by Sophie Wereley
IGMS Audio
InterGalactic Medicine Show Interviews
At the Picture Show: Extended Cut
Blockbuster Viagra
by Chris Bellamy

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Oyster Beach
    by Sophie Wereley

Oyster Beach
Artwork by Scott Altmann

The day they found Joey Takamoto's body washed up on Oyster Beach, Yuan and I had been drinking up by the bridge to the mainland. We didn't know what was happening until the sirens went off.

"Someone died," Yuan said. Her beer slipped from her fingers and exploded in foam on the sand.

We started running, all clumsy arms and legs, toward the sound of the sirens. I had this feeling in my chest like I'd swallowed a fistful of smooth pebbles, and they were clogging up my throat and stomach.

We came around the bridge and I saw Mrs. Takamoto's car in the parking lot. That's when I knew it was him. Joey was dead.

Mrs. Takamoto held me and cried. Yuan covered her mouth with her hands. Her head swiveled back and forth. No, not again.

And the police didn't even say, "Have you girls been drinking?" They just took our shaking bodies and led us to the parking lot of Marsh Bro's Seafood, into the arms of parents and siblings and tourists who pointed from underneath their floppy hats. People without important faces patted my back and told me everything was going to be all right.

It was the two of us, drunk in a sea of liars.

Two weeks after they found the body, Joey's brother Jordin came back from the University of Virginia with a secondhand revolver in his luggage. He bought a motorboat and fifteen yards of trammel net, which he weighed down along the edges with copper washers. He went out on the water every day. Even though there were lots of stories about what happened to Joey, Jordin had already made up his mind.

"He thinks Joey got killed by the mermaid," I said.

"He's also an idiot," Yuan said. We watched him from the kitchen window. Marsh Bro's Seafood backed up onto Oyster Beach - the little blue crab statue on the roof sometimes looked like it was scuttling out of the water, if you came at it from the right angle - and we'd been watching him boat up and down the channel between the island and mainland for hours.

"Jordin's going to get himself killed out there, too," she said.

"Yeah," I said.

"He's not going to find it."

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