writing
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Thomas Aidan Hiscock – Mussel Cove, Falmouth, Maine – 2025 *** Gunner paused – Hanging from his mailbox was a bait bag – just a raggedy, red pouch – nothing more… If it hadn’t been for the full moon and the message, well… He sighed, kissing a cigarette. “Fuck!” He knew the drill… “Pay late
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Thomas Aidan Hiscock – Mussel Cove, Falmouth, Maine – 2025 *** I woke up tasting blood. Biting my lip, I tried to rally saliva but only managed bile … and a grimace … Oh, fuck me … and more blood. Blood doesn’t taste like … ‘pennies’… Blood tastes like salt and sex … Blood tastes
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Thomas Aidan Hiscock – Mussel Cove, Falmouth, Maine – 2025 *** Fuck. Here we go again… There! It was barely a whisper, as bashful as that leak in your tire – you know, the one that’s always got you in the driveway – neck bent, knees screaming into the rock as you try to find
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Thomas Aidan Hiscock – Mussel Cove, Falmouth, Maine – 2025 *** In the waning days of May, as the world burned with hidden fire – Anna sat on the beach, digging her feet in the sand. Waves caressed her ankles as plovers scurried by, dancing in the surf. Anna gazed at the water, at the
Mussel Cove Creations 