by T W G Fraser
slimier and dirtier. But we loved diving off it.
The line tugged and tugged again.
I let it out some more. I was angry with myself for losing concentration so easily. The boat was not far from the end of the pond. One man was leaning out over the water with a long stick. Another was stepping very slowly down into the water. The others were aiming their guns into the water encouraging him to go further. He reached the boat. He got a grip on it and pulled it to the bank. Others were coming down to lend a hand. I tightened the fishing line and then pulled, it came lose. But nothing happened.
Two men were pulling the big man from the water, two more were bent over the boat, they rolled it over to reveal the body of the small man. It was a matter of seconds. Four seconds. The grenade exploded.
I was splashing out of the water, up to the head of the pier, onto dry land, the brown dry earth firm under my feet as I ran for the trees. Then I was among trees. I took a glance over my shoulder. There was smoke over the end of the pond, some bodies. I ran on, starting up the hill. I could see the roof of the shack over to my right.
Later, not long before it got dark, I came back down. Nobody had followed me. I crept through the trees very slowly, trying to count the number of bodies. I went round the pond until I was almost looking uphill at the back of the sluice. There were more bodies down this side. I was after a gun and I soon found one. A shotgun. It was loaded so I felt better, safer. I climbed a bit more up the bank to the pond. A rifle lay on the ground. I put that over my shoulder. Then I checked all the bodies looking for guns and ammunition. The guns I didn't want I threw into the mud that was all that was left of the pond. Our pond.
I left the bodies where they were and walked over to the shack.
I spent the night on the steps sleeping and crying. The black oval of the drying pond reflected nothing. Later, before sunrise, I left the shack with whatever I could carry in my pockets.
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About the author:
T W G Fraser has been writing short stories since he was 16. Now he is 49 and hopes to publish a story a month for the next 12 months. Something I doubt he is going to achieve.
Can I also say that I that I do not like the copyright notice on the first page. I tried to add the following but story kept getting rejected so here is what I really want to say:
Thank you for buying this ebook. You are welcome to share it with your
friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial
you for your support.
The next story is a murder mystery entitled: Bored, to be published in February.
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