Felltree Marsh a bucket and a [m]op

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thick sludge of mud and water, air so humid it felt like vapor; diesel was a solid chunk of turd in the shitpie of summer heat.

wading trough tits-deep marsh filling was cooling the first hour, which was an hour ago now, if how much hotter the sun on her back had got could be used to measure. the sludge turned lukewarm, which definitely added to the mental image of being trapped in someone's toilet waste pit. 

the birds she'd come to catch sounded as if laughing. she was bleeding watery pink blood into the swampwater behind her.

and she was so hot.

like, internally. unbearably.

diesel trudged on, each step-pull accompanied by a sucking sound of mud barely letting her go.