The Dead River by Jéanpaul Ferro Jack Linton had been floating down the Dead River for three long months now. Early in the morning, the sun would turn the crown of each wave a different hue of golden-brown, turning a flat black as each swell slouched down and became a rapid at Elephant Rock and Mine Field. The river was ancient compared to a man, and each morning it seemed to get older; but at thirty-eight, Jack felt this enormous […]