The Wetlands

Photo by Erin Leary

Dzinski leaned on the fence, smoking, and watched the four men in hip waders stake out a yellow-ribboned square in the gray water. The sun came up over the far pines and a mist rose from the swampy river run-off.

The body was exactly where the anonymous caller said it would be.

Dzinski crushed the cigarette against the wet gravel of the path. Something about the caller’s voice kept gnawing at him, something familiar. The men in the bog lifted the body onto a stretcher and started carrying it to the path. The mud sucked greedily at their boots.

Prompt courtesy of the Friday Fictioneers. Read more stories here.


19 thoughts on “The Wetlands

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