hills

Fifteen year old Johnny Marsden walked along the dirt road, his fishing pole carried loosely in his left hand, the rod back up over his shoulder. The road was dark brown and damp, except where white chunks of limestone rock protruded. It was only muddy where the water was still standing in small puddles, some with tire-tread tracks still leading from them. To the left, a thick piney wood marched off up the side of the … Read more