Witching Hour

On the bank of the Mississippi River under a cottonwood tree, watching the river's water flow; a young man holds a thin hickory fishing pole in hand, to be alone with his thoughts, seeping deep into the delicate, soothing, murmur of the river. He came from a poor indigent family. Life was a bit obtuse for him. School was boring and pointless in his mind. He seemed to most enjoy getting into trouble. The folks around felt he was always making egregious blunders. One astronomical twilight night he dared his friend to walk through the consecrate dilapidated graveyard at midnight. A stir in the air, there was movement there. A void within the eerie luminous cemetery. There in the open graves, laid the sacred dead in their beds. Heartrending moans of the wilderness somewhere far-off in the wind. The hours disordered breathing circulated a redder glow; hell rising upon the headstones. A sinking dull feeling fell upon both boys; down to their knees they stumbled and fell. Awaking from their delirium sought to mediate disputes of what happened the night before. 8/18/2019