On a muggy spring afternoon, the clouds sense a secret is about to be discovered. They crowd low, peering over a verdant bog. The sound of a pickaxe falls in a rhythmic swish-thump. The man’s fear and worry rise like perfume.
Another woman was taken yesterday. The clouds hadn’t been in attendance, but they knew that the man’s sister was there, and that she looked away for only a second. All that remained of her friend was the basket spilling red, glistening berries onto the ground.
Swish-thump. The man, Olek, drives his pickaxe into thick peat. Every time he pulls it out, it makes a squelching, sucking sound, as though the bog doesn’t want to relinquish it.
The bog doesn’t often relinquish things.
This story was first published on PotatoSoupJournal.com on August 1, 2022.