They had always called it the green river.
The boxed moved. That was a problem. Peter had packed the box three hours before and there was nothing inside that should make it move. The question now was whether or not Peter was going to open it up and look inside to see why it had moved. The answer to that question was obvious. Peter dropped the package into the mailbox so he would never have to see it again. It was always the Monday mornings. It never seemed to happen on Tuesday morning, Wednesday morning, or any other morning during the week. But it happened every Monday morning like clockwork. He mentally prepared himself to once again deal with what was about to happen, but this time he also placed a knife in his pocket just in case.
The trail to the left had a “Danger! Do Not Pass” sign telling people to take the trail to the right. This wasn’t the way Zeke approached his hiking. Rather than a warning, Zeke read the sign as an invitation to explore an area that would be adventurous and exciting. As the others in the group all shited to the right, Zeke slipped past the danger sign to begin an adventure he would later regret.
Indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her whole being with a vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul’s summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood. She did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at Fate, which had directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was just having a good cry all to herself. The mosquitoes made merry over her, biting her firm, round arms and nipping at her bare insteps.
