"Peter And The Swamp Monster" - Page 1

PETER AND THE SWAMP MONSTER

Rory McCusken and Greg Witherspoon sat on the old wooden dock and dangled their bare feet in the cool water. Rory had a simple bamboo stick, and Greg was using a carbon shaft fishing pole, but neither of them was having any luck.

“We didn’t get out here early enough,” Greg complained.

“It’s only 8 o’clock,” Rory pointed out.

“I told you we shoulda been out here by seven.”

“Quit yer whinin’, it’s all good.”

Rory was dressed in cut-off blue jeans and a white t-shirt. Greg was a bit tubby, and his mom wasn’t kind when buying his school clothes. She always went preppy rather than cool, and she seemed to be in denial about Greg’s weight issues. As a result, Greg had on khaki shorts and a collared, button-up shirt that was a size too small. His belly poked out a little from beneath the bottom.

“They’re not biting,” Greg grumbled.

“They will.”

“Maybe we should go tubing instead.”

Rory sighed. “You got no patience, Greg. Just relax.”

“I’d relax better if I had a coke. Get me a coke, will you?”

Rory got to his feet on the boards of the gently swaying dock. It was the floating type that rose and sank as the water level changed, but was still anchored to tall wooden posts sticking up out of the lake. That way, heavy rains wouldn’t cover the dock, and a really dry summer wouldn’t leave it too high above the water.

Rory walked the twenty feet up to the shore. They had left their supplies up closer to the bank so they wouldn’t knock anything in accidentally. The park rangers looooved to hand out citations for even the smallest bits of littering. If a potato chip bag got away from them and a ranger spotted it, Rory would be cutting grass for two months trying to pay off the fine.

He rummaged in the cooler and pulled out a couple of soda cans from the sixpack. He figured they could have one now, one about eleven when they ate their PB&J sandwiches, and one for the bike ride back home.

He looked up the muddy dirt path that circled through the weeds and marsh grasses. The bikes were a good tenth of a mile up the trail, deep among the twisted swamp trees. He wasn’t worried anybody would steal them, though; the inner tube riders never came this far down the springs. Besides, Rory had locked the bikes up with his chain, and that sucker was heavy-duty. Nothing but a blow torch was going to cut through those links.

Frogs croaked from the water and insects buzzed in the trees. The sun sparkled off the lake. The air had started off cool on their bike ride earlier that morning, but was quickly warming up.

Rory popped the top on one of the sodas and took a long, slurping gulp. By the time he’d finished drinking, all the animal noises were gone.

Rory didn’t notice it at first. He was only a few steps along the dock before he realized how silent the lake had become.

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Copyright © 2009 Darren Pillsbury. All rights reserved.