Berry Bog : A Short Story : The Berry Bog

Deej Logan was just like any normal high school girl. She woke up on her first day of school and combed her hair, picked out the “perfect” outfit and headed out the door. What she didn’t know is that after that day nothing would be the same. Nothing that day seemed to be going right. At school drama was swarming all around her, not exactly what she hoped the first day would be like. By the time the last bell of the day rang she was more than happy to get out of that school. She drove home as quickly as she could but as soon as she got home she realized that she had forgotten to pick up her sisters. “Great.” She thought sarcastically as she sat back down in her car and drove off. Just then she pulled out her phone to message one of her friends about her awful day. That one decision changed everything. Before she had a chance to send the message Deej veered off into oncoming traffic and was killed on impact.

We had not gone a rod when we found ourselves in a heap, in a heavy drift of snow. We took hold of each others’ hands, pulled ourselves out, got into the road, and the cold north wind blew us down the road a half mile south, where the Strelow boys and John Conrad had to go west a mile or more. When they reached a bridge in a ravine, the little fellows sheltered a while under the bridge, a wooden culvert, but Robert, the oldest, insisted that they push on thru the blinding storm for their homes. In the darkness they stumbled in, and by degrees their parents thawed them out, bathed their frozen hands, noses, ears and cheeks, while the boys cried in pain. “My brothers and I could not walk thru the deep snow in the road, so we took down the rows of corn stalks to keep from losing ourselves ’till we reached our pasture fence. Walter was too short to wade the deep snow in the field, so Henry and I dragged him over the top. For nearly a mile we followed the fence ’till we reached the corral and pens. In the howling storm, we could hear the pigs squeal as they were freezing in the mud and snow. Sister Ida had opened the gate and let the cows in from the field to the sheds, just as the cold wind struck and froze her skirts stiff around her like hoops. The barn and stables were drifted over when we reached there. The roaring wind and stifling snow blinded us so that we had to feel thru the yard to the door of our house. “The lamp was lighted. Mother was walking the floor, wringing her hands and calling for her boys. Pa was shaking the ice and snow from his coat and boots. He had gone out to meet us but was forced back by the storm. We stayed in the house all that night. It was so cold that many people froze.” Although most of the information that was collected or the stories that were told were in South Dakota, Nebraska, North Dakota the temperatures took

Jackie and I were now halfway to where Mike’s car wreck took place, on Highway 46. The accident must have been pretty bad because it was reported on the news, a rare case, I thought to myself. I prayed Mike was going to be ok. The drive felt like it was taking hours to get to the scene . I could feel the tension in the car growing. The fact that one of our closest friends could be gravely injured was a slug shot from a shotgun into our chests. Jackie was still distressed as she drove; tears dripped from her eyes like droplets from a cool water bottle on a hot day.

He’d lost his leg to a spinning mule last year, so having no job he could sleep in as late as he wanted. I glanced at my parent’s bed and realized in alarm that they weren’t there. My parents had to get up at 4 in the morning so they could make it to the coal mines. They must’ve already left. Which meant that I was late.

Instead of your heavy winter coat, you decide on a raincoat and boots for the upcoming rain. With the wet dirt and uncovered tree’s, earthly smells enclose your senses. Seeing the newly grown grass. Hearing the birds chirp after returning back to their homes. Critters have just begun to come out of hibernation and everything starts to become the active beaten path you used to know. As the clouds start to disappear and the sun comes out of hiding, trees and plants start to bloom with new life with the vibrant colors of summer. Leaving behind the pastel colors of spring, summer brings noisy vibrant colors to life. The animals wake and scamper across the cement pathway while the flowers open to the morning rays. Different smells meet you halfway to fill your nose with aromas that have not been discovered since last

At the outset, during one cloudless afternoon in South Central, Los Angeles, a five-year-old juvenile by the forename of Anthony, cycles his training wheel down the pavement of the road while he unwearyingly waits for his mother Ronnie and her boyfriend Caine to finish transporting their properties to the van for their perpetual relocation to the metropolitan city of Atlanta, Georgia. As the adolescent voyages further on down the pathway, a green Pontiac LeMans Sedan comprised of four men with black masks obscuring their discrete identities, deliberately cruise alongside the curb contiguous to the last house on the street. As the four men approach the residence of Anthony and his mother Ronnie, one of the vehicle’s passengers bellows out

The town where Tom Walker lived, is next to a black swamp. In this black swamp, the pools are stagnant, pits and quagmires are covered in weed and moss, the trunks of pines and hemlocks laid rotting on the ground. In the black swamp, is an old Indian fort that was used to hide the women and children of the Indian tribe. Lurking around in the swamp is Old Scratch.

It has been ten years since Fred left for Vancouver. Fred is now twenty-seven, but still in the seventeen-year-old body he was when he was turned into a wretched monster. He still thinks of the day that he left behind Bree and Diego, part of him wishes that he had stayed, instead of going to Vancouver. He also remembers the cold, dreary day in Seattle, walking home on his usual route, not having a care in the world, because everyday was the same, until he saw the man from the newspapers. The man in the newspapers was mentioned everywhere. No one knew where Riley, a nineteen-year-old college student would have went. Fred thought about how idiotic it was to ask Riley if he was okay- maybe he would still be a human. Fred sulked as he walked home from the fifth high school he has went to.

As Bill took his first step in the woods, he takes a deep breath soaking in the scent of oak and fresh ash. “far removed from the seats of strife”, not having a warm bed or hot meals even a full night rest. Knowing he had one abventure ahead for Bill and Kats. Both having to hike 16 miles everyday over rocks,trees, crossing ice cold rivers, and hearding the rain outside of thier tend and the roaring of the bears at night.

August had been road tripping every summer with his son, Phillip, until Phillip was tragically killed in an auto accident the summer before. It had always been their dream to experience Yellowstone together, and then Phillip’s life was taken before he could make it. Now, a little over a year later, August meets the mechanic’s two sons, Seth, 12, and Henry, 7. After finding out that Wes, the mechanic, is supposed to be sent to prison for 90 days, August finally agrees to care for the boys and take them along on his trip at Wes’s request. Throughout the trip, August and the boys continually learn about each other from different experiences. August finds out that the boys’ father is actually being sent to prison for six months on his fourth charge of DUI, and Seth and Henry learn about August’s life as an ex-alcoholic and how he copes with the loss of his son. The trio enjoy their summer and finally do make it to Yellowstone, whereupon they sprinkle some of Phillip’s ashes in places they think will be the most memorable. Then, the bad news comes. Wes has managed to apply for house arrest so that he can take care of his kids at the end of the summer (instead of sending them home with August), and everyone including August is devastated. Although August

Once they were there, the quarter-mile trek to their place had to be made. It was a small, circular clearing in the cone-bearing woods. The area around the fire pit was dirt, for safety reasons. On the outskirts of the copper-colored dirt were five large, round logs arranged in a circle for sitting. Just a few feet beyond the logs, the forest began again in copious amounts of vegetation and growth, like an untamed lion. That night’s weather was just right. The cool air was

In the book “The Old Ways” Robert Macfarlane shows exactly how he is a nature writer. The chapter “Snow” and “Peat” reveal the two different human being’s effect on nature, technology and personal contact from walking barefoot; however, they have a similar purpose to the suggest the future generation.

Feeling all those eyes stare at me, I knew that my next few actions were vital to my survival. My sleep deprived state may have been the only thing keeping me from storming out of the bus right then and there. It also dictated my next action. Out of energy and fatigued, I decided it would be best to lay my head back and take a nap. I took the most angry, worried, and defeated nap imaginable on that bus ride to the track meet. Waking up to the gust of freezing wind that filled the bus as the door opened, and seeing the gargantuan football stadium made me realize that I had, in fact, survived the awkward bus ride to the regional meet. As I exited the bus and grabbed my pole, I expected to receive even more awkward stares, but alas, none were given. I concluded, with pole in hand, that if everybody had not forgotten about the incident already, they would once the track meet started. My anger temporarily ceased as we set up our tent. Once the tent was set up and I had put my pole in a safe position, my free hand reached for my phone. As I pulled out my phone and gently placed my thumb on the home button, the screen lit up. “7:25,” the screen said, as if to mock my anxiousness as I drove to

We filled those hot summer days playing hopscotch and marbles, or rolled down the hills in my yard until we felt so dizzy that we couldn’t stand. The brook below our house was gentle. Sometimes we would both go down, sit on the bridge while we let our feet hang loose to let the cooling water drip past our toes, and breathed in the smell of pine and moss. The sound of rushing water hitting the rocks was soothing. You could see giant bullfrogs peering their heads up and out of the water, as still as could be. Although their green coloring blends in with the moss, I always knew to look for a pair of gleaming yellow eyes, and their white chin that was always above the surface of the water. We usually let them be, but sometimes we liked to try to catch their wet and slimy

The fleeting changes that often accompany seasonal transition are especially exasperated in a child’s mind, most notably when the cool crisp winds of fall signal the summer’s end approaching. The lazy routine I had adopted over several months spent frolicking in the cool blue chlorine soaked waters of my family’s bungalow colony pool gave way to changes far beyond the weather and textbooks. As the surrounding foliage changed in anticipation of colder months, so did my family. My mother’s stomach grew larger as she approached the final days of her pregnancy and in the closing hours of my eight’ summer my mother gently awoke me from the uncomfortable sleep of a long car ride to inform of a wonderful surprise. No longer would we be returning