Fiction | October 22, 2015

What she would remember, when she saw the dog thrashing in the Sound and the disarticulated body parts of her husband and daughter trawled up from the wreckage of the Magister, was Oonark. She might have remembered the wedding guests she had stranded, her daughter to be married in the afternoon, with still so much to get settled: the bridesmaids moaning over hems and tightened waistbands, the florist complaining that the lacy overlays did not match the ivory hydrangeas, and the event planner unable to find the cash box for the money, for the money—the newlyweds were in their twenties, and they had nothing, after all. And the vodka wasn’t right, said the bartender, the in-laws wanted Bombay Sapphire, and the grandmother swore by Beefeater, what was there to do, what was there to do?

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