wellRED podcast - Here We Rest Parts 1&2: A Southern Crime Drama by Corey Ryan Forrester

Episode Date: June 26, 2026

Hey everybody, it’s your boy Corey Ryan Forrester here! If you listen to wellRED or subscribe to my sub stack CoreyWritesForYou.com, you may have already heard this, but in the event you haven’t I wanted to share it with you! I’ve gotten such great feedback on this and that really excites me because it is a departure from the normal stuff that I do !  If you enjoy it, consider subscribing to my sub stack  (CoreyWritesForYou.com) which you can do absolutely for free!  There is an option to pay five dollars a month so if you have extra coin laying around and my work brings value to your life, I’m not going to stop you from doing that , but I know things are tight for everybody right now, so I want people to enjoy everything I do regardless of their budget!  Thank you for allowing me to be a part of your lives ! C

Fishing downstream from a nuclear power plant ain't the smartest thing a man could do, but there's set Randall doing it no-how. Says he reckons he won't eat them, but it sure is fun trying to catch them three-headed some bitches. I suppose it was. Randall Daltry was many things, but a liar he weren't. Up at the fire, his wife Martha was explaining to some distant cousin about how you can't do double coupons at every grocery store, but she had a list of the ones where you could.

She had a permanent band-aid on her big toe because she couldn't stop knocking it on the metal rod sticking out of her recliner. She wouldn't fix it because the Braves hadn't lost a pennant since it broke and Jesus wasn't her only superstition. The kids ran around, in the parlance of the time, like little wild Indians, not concerning themselves with the value of that which they broke. One was trying to fix a bicycle chain and only making it worse

while Aunt Ida's twin girls bogarded the jump-ympers, rope so they could double dutch until the sun went down and it was time to swat at lightning bugs with a wiffle ball bat. I was behind the screen door and the camper. The camper did not come with the screen door, so Randall took the one off his dead mama's porch and sanded it down to fit. It was not practical, but it was nice and everyone got a kick out of it. That was Randall's way. It didn't matter if something is supposed to be, only that it could be. He didn't stop to consider the fullest notion of pragmatism when he got an idea on how to make something fun. He once traced his son Levi on a door with a carpenter's pencil and used a tractsaw to cut out an opening that only Levi could fit through.

It made no sense and took all purpose away from the door, but Levi thought it was the neatest thing in the world, and that's all that mattered to Randall. I sat there drinking some home brew made by who else but Randall Daltry. I'd pretty much given up on strong drink when Sheila left me, but I couldn't turn down Randall's apple pie. It burned in that real good way that lets you know it's going to work, but don't sour your face too much. It was that good. I had been inside for a few hours, just watching the little dramas of the family unfold in front of me while praying no one needed me for anything. I like these gatherings in theory, but I prefer to keep to myself,

especially back then. Seems like every time I participated in something, I'd mess it up. That's probably why she left. Didn't have shit all to do with the drinking. I could ruin just about anything while sober as a judge, or at least I'd tell myself that to justify another swig, then another. And then it was on to the next Mason jar. Randall didn't care. He made enough back in the day to get us through the Cold War if it ever came to that, and as we all know, it didn't. I laid back on the itchy old camper couch and started to nod off when I heard a commotion down on the bank.

Holy shit! Randall screamed, forcing Sheila out of my mind for the first time all day. Sunny boy, get down here! He called me Sunny Boy, despite my name being Steve. Sunny Boy was his tailgunner back in the Pacific Theater, and I assumed it was a term of endearment until I found out he called me that, because after the war, Sunny Boy moped around aimlessly until Shellshot got the better of him, and he shot a double dose of black tar in his neck. This was apparently Randall's fun way of calling me a sad sack.

I know he loved me. It's just that generation had a hard time showing it. I ran down to meet him, forgetting I'd just foundered myself on corn liquor, and took out several lawn chairs on my way. I managed to stay on my feet by some miracle, but the sloshing in my stomach was about to send a bill of sale to my mouth. What's going on, Randall, I said, between gasps of breath while resting my elbows on my knees and my chin on my chest. Then I smelled it. I vomited so hard there was a wonder a lung didn't come up with it. There was a body floating in the water, and from what we knew from old detective shows, it had been there a while. "'Hight, damn! Whoever he is, he's blowed up like a damn birthday balloon,' Randall said, nasally while pinching his nose.

"'We better call the law. I got Sheriff Stevens number somewhere in my truck. I took a bodeore and slowly but surely got the body flipped over on its back. I gasped. "'What is it, Sonny, boy?' I wiped the puke off my mouth and prepared for another round of it. I was in shock. The words were right there, but it took them a minute to reach my lips. It's Sheriff Stevens, I said. Randall looked at me and his face turned white. Well, he said, I reckon he's not going to answer the phone then.

Part 2. Growing up in the rural south, a floating carcass was perhaps not the most unsettling thing I've ever seen, but it certainly would be for the children. Randall had a stillness about him that I'd never seen him wear. We were not blood, but the same. that changes nothing. Randall is as much family to me as anyone with the last name Crosland ever was. When I was a teenager and needed to get away from everything going on at home, Randall and Martha's door was always open to me. Randall was a tough man, but a fair man. He also had a

great sense of humor, which juxtaposed comically with his tough military exterior. When you've watched your best friends die face down in the mud amidst the roar of enemy artillery, I reckon it makes life's normal woes seems like child's play in comparison. I never saw a situation get the better of him in the 30-some-odd years I've known him, but today was different. Seeing Sheriff Stephen's body swayed back and forth in the wake, bloated and stinking of death, caused Randall to take a rare, long beat before speaking,

and when he finally did, I wish he hadn't. You need to make the call, Sonny boy. I knew he was right, but that changed nothing as far as my feelings were concerned. I had spent the better part of the week trying to see how much liquor could kill a man so I could just hover below that threshold. I'm an emotional wreck even without punishing my body, so standing there, having not had a sip of water in as long as I could remember, I was numb. Well, no, that's not true. I was very much in pain. I would have killed for numb, actually.

But I certainly couldn't think clear enough to make a weighted decision. In that moment, the only things I knew was that I still loved Sheila and that the distance between us was my fault. I had been wanting to reach out to her for so long, to lie to her and tell her I'd changed, to tell her that things would be different, to ask if she'd come back in my life and make me whole once more. But now, instead, I'd have to call and tell her that her daddy was dead. I knew what I was supposed to do, but I couldn't bring myself to do it. Randall, we better call the police first. I'll holler at her afterwards, but I don't want to be accused of failing to report this shit in time. Randall looked at me funny. Well, he'll be just as dead when you get off the phone

with her, but knock yourself out, Sonny boy. As I went to walk up to the bank to get a telephone, I heard a loud boat chopping through the water. As I turned and looked, I noticed a Coast Guard flag. I reckon that meant I could stay put. Perhaps someone else had called it in before he washed up towards us. The uniform fella in the passenger seat hollered at us over a bullhorn. step away from the body this instant i thought to myself what the hell did they think we were about to do field dress the dead some bitch and cooking for dinner i mean i know you ain't supposed to contaminate a crime scene but it doesn't take a detective to figure out that this isn't where the murder happened damn is that what i think happened a murder of course that's what happened

Sheriff Steve was a lifelong fisherman, a star athlete, and a very cautious and safety-prone man. There is no way you could convince me he just fell in the water and died. It may not have been murder one. Hell, it may have even been an accident, but one thing is for sure, this was someone other than Sheriff Stevens doing. The Coast Guard feller spoke once again, "'Terribly sorry to alarm you, folks, just didn't want you too close to the body in case it explodes. They do that sometimes, you know. in your body break down after death, and, oh, you can go up like a hot fart out of nowhere.

I suppose that is true. I certainly didn't major in anything that gave me an argument against it, but it was a rather odd thing to say over the body of a dead man. Okay, I said, but I don't think he's been dead that long. Medical examiner, are we? He said. Nope, just watch a lot of procedurals. Without saying another word, the Coast Guard boat inched as close as it could without grounding itself and then used what looked like a pool cleaner to drag the body closer and then eventually on deck. All right, guys, be safe.

Are y'all going to send someone to get our statement? Randall screamed, but they just kept on driving. I was stunned. Almost no sooner than we had discovered the dead body, it was scooped up and heading the other way. No interview, no police tape, no sirens. To say I was in shock would be an understatement. While I was in this disillusioned state, however, I somehow mustered the courage to pick up the phone. She may not love me anymore, but the news should at least come from someone she knows.

As the phone rang, I thought about what I might say. I thought about our wedding. I thought about the years I'd thrown away. But mostly, I thought about how horrible it was that I was about to hurt her worse than I ever have. When she answered the phone, I went numb. You don't ever consider that you'll miss someone's voice, but God damn it I did. Her innocent Alto almost whispering, Hello, sent chills down my spine.

How could I have fucked this up? Why can't I just be normal? Hello, she said again. Steve, are you there? I'm here. I, uh, hey Sheila. Steve, what do you want? I have to tell you something.

Are you sitting down? I am actually. I'm sitting down to lunch. Okay, well, if you're with someone, you might want to excuse yourself because this is going to come as a shock. Steve, you're scaring me. I was scaring myself, too. The butterflies in my stomach were laying eggs. Sheila, your dad is dead. There was a long pause. I didn't think I could handle hearing her cry.

Looking back, I wished to God she had of because what happened instead is something that I'll never get over. Steve, I don't know whether to laugh or throw my phone. Are you drinking again? What the fuck is your problem? Is this your idea of a joke? I knew it would be difficult, but I didn't think I'd be called a liar. Sheila, I don't want to be doing this, but I thought you'd want to hear it from someone you knew. Your daddy is dead.

Steve, Sheila said in a stern tone, that is impossible. I assure you it's not. I just saw him. They took him on down the lake in a Coast Guard boat. I'm sure they'll call you soon. I just... Steve, I'm sitting here with my father right now. I went numb once more.

To be continued.