It was that day. The day the sun hung low and refused to rise but slung bows and arrows that pierced your eyes. The trail buried in shadows. New black top was soft beneath my feet and the trail snaked and followed the same course as the river. The river was high and slow. And there it was. Scratched in the path, dusty blue chalk, “Eddie Atwood killed me”.
But it was only further down the road that I found the body. Asleep, slumped across the picnic table. Except for the ants and the snail that clung to his ear and the fact that his eyes, pecked out, and the crows bounced on the cedar branches that hung above the table. Not even afraid of me.
Then the crunch of leaves beneath a boot in the direction of the bank, not unlike the sound of potato chips…crushed in your palm.
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