Thomas Aidan Hiscock – Mussel Cove, Falmouth, Maine – 2025

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August burns in the sky overhead, baking the mudflats.

Heatwaves dance above the muck, heavy with the smell of fish.

Horseflies, fat and green, make a meal of leftover shells picked clean by the gulls.

Critters squirm beneath the filth, hiding from the heat —

Bloodworms with their nasty bite; razor clams, sealed shut;

Crabs, needling the shore; 

Snails ooze across the surface;

Limpets, slick with algae and memories of the tide… 

Graffiti barnacles, crusted shut.

Mud spreads for miles…. to the horizon — past the refuge of the cove. 

Boats hang dead on their moorings, the rising tide just beyond reach…

Oily brown, pockets of saltwater and seaweed…

The mudflat spills into a small beach — a dash of sand and seagrass. 

There’s a large wooden dock on the shore… 

People mill about, talking and waving their arms.

The crowd swells — a mess of bodies and long white limbs.

Then silence. 

Out comes the driftwood trophy, bleached with age.

The crowd splits, eyes on the one who holds it…

Wailing children and serious adults — fixed on the horizon, that coastal Valhalla. 

People wear ratty old sneakers and galoshes and water shoes duct-taped to their ankles and — 

All in hopes of slipping and sliding to victory. 

All in hopes of lifting that driftwood trophy and winning the mud race. 

The crowd gathers on the dock, testing the mud with a ginger toe, a wagging finger. 

And then this big brute of a man steps off the edge…

Thick, foul mud seeps through his toes, consuming the leg.

They heave him out, of course, panting like dogs… 

Mooring balls mark a course around the cove…

Broken, bloated constellation…

A toddler plays atop the hot, shifting sand… too sweet for this sour place.

Mom gives a kiss goodbye and lines up to race.

Someone fires a gun, and off they go —

Leaping off the dock, stumbling through the mud!

Everybody ran. No one stayed behind.

No one but the toddler — left to fumble in the sand…

Red afternoon fury. 

He sees his mother sprint away, braids bouncing in the wind… 

The child teeters toward the dock, crawling over splintered gray wood… 

… and stumbles down, drawn toward the memory of his mother.

No savior, no thought… he walks off the edge, falling face-first into the mud below — 

Cries muted by the choking, black stench; eyes scraped by grit and grime…

He’s too shocked to roll over and too young to think.  

Thrashing, peach fingers cry for help…

His body shudders and gives out, smothered by the earth…

The runners are far from shore, deep in the belly of the cove —

Black dots spread along the horizon, punctuating the heat.

The tide is rising… waves lick the shore, spilling over his corpse.

Graffiti barnacles burst open.

Limpets greet the familiar tide;

Snails endure, plowing ahead;

Crabs pinch the bubbling waves;

Bloodworms slither beneath the mud; razor clams relax, open wide…

And horseflies, starving green, make a meal of warm white flesh untouched by the gulls…

Then she screams. 

Cough-syrup anguish, nails scraping the sand. 

Red throat… swallow pain. 

***