Narrative Essay: Blues On The Mississippi

Blues on the Mississippi

I’d come to the conclusion, finally after a few hours of being on the river trying to fish for a week’s worth of food, we’d need to find somewhere else to place our camp and hunt for our fish.
We picked up and wallowed across the shallow water, our dog soon behind us. We’d managed to make a couple of miles down, and found a decent little rock, that dropped off into the river. The fellow fishermen stole their glances towards our camp, though we easily dismissed it, seeing as how neither of us were having much luck out on the river or off of the bay.
“Folks would’a been comin’ up to the town by now, Clarence.”
“Mmph.” I mumbled back at Albert. “But they’re not, are they?”
It was quick to shut him up from his constant complaining. We’d been away from the town for over

Night fell quickly over the Mississippi and we were left to our pathetic campfire and grass beds off to the side of our famous little fishing rock. Nights grew cold as the seasons crept by. With each day, we’d move a little bit further down the river, picking up our poles and leaving. Usually, we never stayed more than two to three days in a spot before we took off further down the river.
There was no other towns for miles and miles, and we’d hoped that following the river would be able to lead us to another civilization. As we went, we lost a little more hope with each get-up-and-go.
Suddenly there was a rustle in the woods, which sent both of our alert eyes towards the direction of the noise. As he crept by, we watched as a deer peeked through a shrub at us, curiously and cautiously sniffing towards us before it was quickly put to the earth by a loud bang.
Through the bushes where the deer had been, we saw eyes staring back at us. Only, the deer was lying on its side next to us; they weren’t the deer’s