They shoved off, sandy shore greedy on the soles of their boots, too big, even with a second pair of socks, when the fog, thick as beans but only waist deep, rolled in off the lake, after the sun had risen, but before it could crest the tops of the trees. Hunched in stern and bow, white knuckles on paddles, not hurrying, but hurried, another huddled, wrapped tight and weighed down, shoved under the yoke.
Flames, stars, glistening off empty beer bottles. Sharp words. Shards swung, slice, sputter, spray. Screams. Echoing in the empty night.
Silence, on the water. Splash.
Prompt courtesy of the Daily Post.