here - Jersey Devil Press

ack the way he came, crunching loud through the twigs and
leaves of the forest floor, scaring off every damn squirrel, I was
sure, for miles around.
I followed him, having to nearly run to keep up, to the bank of
the river, maybe a quarter-mile north of where I’d left him shortly
ago. When I arrived he stood already at the crest of the slight hill
that ran to the water. He was looking down, a hand on either hip.
“What is it?” I said. I edged beside him, catching my breath.
“What’s dead now?”
And then I saw.
Down the riverbank, a body — a woman’s body, and without a
stitch of clothes — lay a good while dead, her bottom half in the
water and the other tangled up in the wire and weeds of the brush.
Her skin blue and fish-belly white. Cheeks all puffed out.
I started to back away, naturally, fearing I might get sick. But
Aldan Jr. squatted low, peered down at the body in the river. I
reached out blindly for his shoulder but he didn’t seem to notice.
His eyes were fixed, studying her. He did not turn away.
JOSEPH ALAN HASINGER lives and teaches and writes in Charleston, South
Carolina. He holds an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Hollins University, and his stories
appear or are forthcoming in The Citron Review and Stanley the Whale.
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