The Weirdo Read Online Free PDF

years earlier, fifty years earlier.
    A beat-up Jeep was parked down there. Maybe they used it to tool around the swamp trails. It was old and derelict, like everything else in the yard except the TV dish.
    Sitting on the edge, closing her eyes, gritting her teeth, she eased out of her waders to relieve the pain. One dropped to the ground and was immediately snatched by the dogs.
    She thought of home. Nine in the morning, and no one knew where she was. They were a close and caring family. Her mother would be frantic by now, maybe even her father.
    A photo taken two years previously sat in the living room: the bo'sun proudly in uniform, Delilah seated in front of him, the children flanking her. While the bo'sun was forever slender and bone-hard, her mother had a bit of a weight problem. She described herself as chunky-plain. Attractive possibly, not pretty. "Plainly attractive," if there was such a category.
    On the other hand, Dell said she'd been lucky with
genes. The children benefited, in her opinion. They were both slender, like their father. Both had shiny, dark hair, as Dell did; cut close, Sam's hair was naturally curly. They both had clean, strong, country-people faces.
    Dell said Sam's wishing she was somewhere else, someone else, with another body and another face, was just a natural part of being sixteen. After a while she'd be more satisfied with who she was, Dell promised. Dell talked about when she was sixteen and had the same thoughts as Sam. Light on her feet, she'd wanted to be a dancer. She could understand Sam's wishes and dreams.
    ***
Claws on its rear legs digging into the black gum bark the way a telephone lineman ascends a pole, forepaws doing little more than retaining balance, a bear shinnies up.
Passing by, it hears a buzzing from the top of the tree and knows that wild bees have a hive up there, hidden in a hollow. A hive means honey, and honey is the choicest of all foods.
Never mind the sting of the bees. They can't penetrate the thick coat; they are unable to furrow down through four inches of glossy hair. Even so, the bear's
tough hide is a shield of armor, and it feels nothing as bees cover its face and lips.
Soon, clinging to the tree with the left paw, it uses the right one to reach in and gather handfuls of the sweet goo, along with its makers, consuming both with great delight. The bees go down the gullet still buzzing.
Below, the smooth, oval leaves soon drip with honey, and flies rise to share the dessert within minutes.
Bears are always messy eaters, I discovered.
Powhatan Swamp

English I

Charles Clewt

Ohio State University
    ***
    SOME wood-framed wire cages, off to the right down below, which she hadn't seen as she ran across the yard, caught her eye. There were at least fifteen of them, and in all but two or three were wild birds.
    Several blue herons. A hawk. An owl. A grackle and a blackbird. A bobwhite, a woodpecker. A couple contained birds she didn't recognize.
    What on earth were the Clewts doing with them? Eating them? Sam made a face at the thought. Heron stew? Grackle pie?
    The silent, caged, cold-eyed birds were just another
reason to leave this house by the spillway as quickly as possible.
    Suddenly she shivered. Wondering about the Clewts reminded her of what she'd seen earlier in the swamp shadows, that hulking, faceless man carrying the bundle over his shoulder.
    Had that really been a foot sticking out of the end?
    Clutching her arms, hugging herself to keep warm, she sat hunched on the roof.
    Â 
    A LITTLE after ten, she heard the sound of an outboard motor and looked southwest across the lake. In the distance, a small boat was headed toward the house. Soon she made out a single figure standing in it.
Must be one of the Clewts,
she thought. No one else was in the boat.
    As the noise grew louder and the boat came closer, the dogs lost interest in Sam and ran down to the lake-shore. Their tails wagged a welcome.
    By the time the engine shut down and the prow of the