Waterlogged

Above, still seated on the wooden bench, sat

Phil. He noticed the slackness of his line and reeled

it in a bit, then rested the fishing pole again into

the groove of the railing. He jiggled the pole and

shrugged. He wasn’t sure if he liked fishing or not.

The two ounce weight he’d attached earlier to

his rig skimmed the bloated female body again; the

tackle still danced around her head and neck area

along with the crabs and pin fish.

Bored, Phil toyed with the shrimp he’d cut

earlier for bait, two pieces lie on the railing; it

would be only minutes before the sun would dry

them to it. Phil chuckled; his father had told him

time and again to never leave the shrimp there.

Put the pieces you’re not using back into the

bag so they won’t dry out. Phil could hear his

father’s admonishing words as he eyed the two

pieces; he touched them with his fingers, they felt

rubbery; already the sun was baking them. The

corners of his mouth curved upward in defiant glee.

Leaning back against the fishing pier bench the

young teenager propped his feet against the

wooden slats. He reached into a small cooler and

fished out a Sun Drop;-it tingled his throat as he

gulped it nearly to half empty, then from his shirt

pocket he grasped the pack of Pall Mall he had

bought earlier that morning at Grocery World.

He thought of the girl there, the one with the

wispy blond hair; her name tag said Mindy. She

never asked for his I.D. He grinned; she was cute,

though a little thick through the middle.

Phil always flirted with her, knowing he could

tap that anytime he wanted. But today, he wanted