The back left wheel wobbled, and threatened to come off. Rattling glass overshadowed the clatter of Davey’s salvaged radio flyer. He retrieved another bottle from the river’s edge. Calling it a river was generous. Breeding ground for disease was more suiting. The boy continued his search. Turning in cans and bottles for a pocket of change saved him from the humiliation of buying reduced lunch. Something shined several feet ahead in the muck. Davey dropped the rusted handle and waded further in. Every step was careful; coming home with a staph infection or worse would cost hospital bills his old man couldn’t pay.
The weeds were thick and mud seeped into his sneakers. Whatever resided below the surface seemed further away than before. It’s one of those things. Like the lady and the old man that are the same picture—something illusion. Davey stopped a short distance from the object, and put his weight on his back foot to keep from falling in. Immersing his arm past his elbow wasn’t enough. It was just out of reach. Giving up seemed a waste; he was already half soaked anyhow. Taking a step closer he reached toward it again.
Something gave him pause. Davey looked around him, unsure of what caught his attention. After a moment he realized it was the absence of sound. Summer was waning, but cicadas should still be singing—there was no birdsong, either. Just a moment ago the bank had been noisy with life. Inexplicable trepidation welled up within him; he teetered on the edge of fright. He glanced back down, his fingertips poised above the now still surface. From beneath the water another hand emerged. The hand grasped his wrist, and there wasn’t time to scream.
There was no ripple when the river dragged him in.
This was my third attempt at this assignment. The first went nowhere, since I wasn't inspired. The second idea would have gone beyond the word limit. I didn't know what would happen to Davey until the end of the story, but I'm very happy with how it turned out.
ReplyDeleteGood job, Rachel. I like how this turns from a kind of pathetic realism into a surreal play on words. Maybe there's a little Stephen King here, in that combination. But better. I was going to ask whether the details that suggest Davey's sorry home life might be a bit unnecessary, a kind of diversion from his act of curiosity designed to explain the act, which really needs no explanation than that there was something interesting in the water. I think I'm still not sure those details of the home (which seem almost stereotypical) are worthy of the space that might be used to portray the present scene in much more detail. A kid at the river's edge: all we need is the barest detail of why he's there, and then an evocative description, a field of details within which something strange stands out. And that strangeness then can be anatomized further as well: his hand poised above the surface, the other hand, like a reflection?
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