Flash Fiction “Not Fishing” by Ben Moore

Every September they would find their spots while others navigate over unsteady terrain and explore dark uninviting crevasses.

intrepid explorers

The battle weary brothers of the shoreline had limited conversation, tackle, line strength, last weeks’ meager haul and sometimes sports.

A bigger one prepared his cast and some intrepid explorers paused to see how far he would reach.

Suddenly somebody struggled diverting all attention. Sand eel satisfyingly punched above their weight. Landed admiration moved on the tide, cool patience blew over them.

A Pollock here; another there. Intrepid explorers discovered new treacherous rocky runs.

It could have been mistaken for a particle of prismed sun beam or even the end of another’s line.

Fishing

The corner of an eye, one head turned but said nothing, he stopped breathing, a pause and suddenly tiny rainbows danced in his eyes. A war cry slipped across the waves.

“Break.”

Heads turned, horizon scanned for upset sea. Fast lines retreated furiously from all directions. Boxes rattled. Splashes spewed.

Small fry darted and made for the surface. Instincts were sharp, stronger, faster, cut them off at the pass, the shoal surrounded them, feeding frenzy. Hooks in fry’s clothing.  

Dalkey Sound

Intrepid Explorers downgraded to lowly Sherpas; sent back down the shore for extra supplies. With tide rising fish began to land. Tackle and sandwiches spill and mix. Two fingers under the gills and crack back the head to break the neck. Others arrived; the word is out.

Eyes widened as the shoreline was laced on a most magical scale. Sherpas slipped skillfully along the barnacled boundary between land and sea.

Braided seaweed between rocks became temporary fish nets, rock navigation made even more treacherous. The fry were chased up and down our shore for hours. Oily exhaustion

Neighborhood sinks overflowed.

House smelled of fish for weeks.

Story lasted for years.

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