even the gators
The stench of swamp water filled LaCroix’s nostrils, but he wasn’t aware of the olfactory experience, so intent was he upon his quest. The swish of water as he took a step; the glare of dappled sunlight across the surface of the bayou; the scorching summer heat that caused rivers of sweat to run down his back and sides. None of these things registered on his consciousness as he made his way deeper into the marsh; none of them mattered.
He was looking for something, his black eyes searching the brackish bog. He’d left it here. Right here. Yet, it continued to elude his prying sight. He forced his bare feet along, muck oozing between toes that crept across the muddy base, feeling along the slimy bottom in an effort to discover that which he’d left partially submerged.
And then, at last, a glint of gold, just beneath the sun-dappled surface!
The curve of a ring, and the pale, pale flesh of a bobbing finger, a hand, an arm. A broken, decaying body silently biding its time.
his wife of many years
Sakyu, AKA t.santitoro, edits THE minimal genre poetry magazine, Scifaikuest. She inhabits a crazy world where horses of a different color exist for real, cats bring nasty gifts to the door, and little grey dogs can change the world.