Blackwater: A Short Story

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Last time I visited Blackwater it was the middle of July. It was hot, humid and swarmed with flies. The marshes were singing their sounds of life and the smell of mud wafted in the air. After a quick visit to the refuge, my uncle took my family out on the boat. To get to the boat we drove 30 mins down past the refuge to the middle of nowhere. It was eerie. Many houses were abandoned overgrown, and lonely. The road turned to dirt. Entire towns were left to dust. Ponds of flooded water sat idly on side of the roads. Once we arrived at the wharf we were greeted by a couple of the watermen, friends of my uncle. Their accents were completely foreign to the Maryland I grew up in. It was like a deeper southern twangy accent where the words morphed
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