Local History:  A novel     December, 2014

by Tim Heintzman

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Broken pieces of glass sparkled like diamonds under Eldon's shoes, between bridge traffic and an iron railing.  The river flowed below, tiny eddies swirling hypnotically on its muddy surface.  A darkness impenetrable lay beneath the thick water, eddies ostensibly benign, surface evidence of an undercurrent, some said, that could drag a person down into murky blackness from which there was no return.  Dark water ate at the base of huge stone columns whose color was like dirty snow.

Half a pint bottle of cheap vodka lay nearby, its label still intact, one part fluttering in the April air.  The floor of the bridge, a swath of thick metal grating, together with the melancholy harmony of rubber tires and air, gave song to a wavering, inexhaustible dirge, a high whine that crept up Eldon's spine.  He shivered every time a car passed.