Hunting Frogs

Timothy Anderson and Robert Davis carefully moved over the rocks, which were slippery from dirt and water. It was a Saturday and the sun was hidden behind a sea of endless clouds, giving the world below a feeling of unease. Timothy and Robert were too distracted to worry about the weather, or much else. They were on a mission and neither wanted to return to their respective homes having wasted an entire day. A glass jar was buried somewhere in Timothy’s satchel; a container for frogs being it’s intended use. The pair were cautiously making their way alongside a rather deep and wide river, eyes scanning for anywhere their targets might lurk. Both had slipped a few times between them and the jar (Unbeknownst to Timothy or Robert) had a rather large crack in it, which they’d discover when they returned back to town frog-less.

For now, they soldiered on, the wind picking up, if only to make their mission more difficult. It was Robert who noticed it first, tapping his friend’s shoulder with enthusiasm, as if he’d seen a hundred frogs in the distance. Whenever either would recount the story of this Saturday in the future, they’d say the dead body loomed upon them, when in reality, the corpse was perfectly stationary due to being caught on some reeds (Timothy will tell this story to his grandchildren; Robert will speak of it only once more between when they returned home and his untimely death in a bar brawl in less than a decade’s time). Timothy was barely able to call Robert’s name as his friend rushed to inspect the floating body. It was a man, pale and bloated, dressed only in a vest and briefs, the former soaked in blood.

“Who do you reckon he is?” Timothy near whispered as he moved behind Robert, who had perched himself only feet from the unfortunate.

“Think he’s been shot. Must be a soldier.” Both boys showed a certain amount of courage not to visibly reveal to each other how chilling they found the body (as that would undoubtedly be a sign of weakness). “Reckon he’s a Union soldier, strayed too far south.”

“That’s stupid,” Timothy protested, “one soldier wouldn’t go by himself. He’s from around here, probably a deserter.”

Robert considered this option and nodded; Timothy did know more about such things than he. A stick lay half in the water, which Robert reached for. He then attempted to dislodge the body and after a minute or so of poking around the man’s midriff, the stick pushed the floating horror free.

“I guess it doesn’t really matter what he was.” Robert contemplated aloud as the slow current moved the body away from them.

“Guess not.”

Silently, the boys made their way home as the dark clouds finally yielded some rain.