A Day at the Lake

Cartoon fishing is bloodless but the one who landed on the bodies of trees that was a good excuse for a sweating can of beer in the red hand of Uncle John was a body, eyes peeled and gasping, flapping, slapping, impaled with rusting violence and the lie about the free lunch of the worm and I also stopped chewing, not because of my seven-year-old wiggly tooth but because of the hook in the ham sandwich my mother'd given me, the hook in the wooden deck of the boat, the hook that cartoon fishing is bloodless

and then she died

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Gone Fishing

The fish hook didn’t stir in the stillness of the water.

There’s a dark, ominous look in the sky. Not the sunny, warm weather the forecasters predicted.

The shore wasn’t far, so I stayed on course and waited. I wished I had something to drink. The air was humid, and my lips quenched water.

In the tiny row boat, I felt lonely, especially since no one else was on the lake and my only companions were the birds chirping in the trees.

A bolt of lightning filled the sky, followed by claps of thunder.

Then the downpour.

No fish today.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Ocean

It was an overcast humid morning and the church bells mingled with the foghorn. It was warm. Uncharacteristically so. This was his usual return time from fishing and his favorite time of day to be at sea. He skillfully edged his lobster boat along the dock, then stepped onto it holding the bow line. A practiced hand tied the cleat knot efficiently. He went up the gangway empty handed, unusual for him. The ocean had always been good to him and never gave up their secrets. He needed it to continue. His cheap wife will never cheat on him again.

From Guest Contributor N.T. Franklin

NT Franklin has been published in Page and Spine, Fiction on the Web, 101 Words, Friday Flash Fiction, CafeLit, Madswirl, Postcard Shorts, 404 Words, Scarlet Leaf Review, Freedom Fiction, Burrst, Entropy, Alsina Publishing, Fifty-word stories, Dime Show Review, among others.

Last Ditch Effort

The slave driver’s eagles squawk and shift violently in the wind to dodge the endless barrage of waves crashing against the rocky cliff’s edge. By our scent, they know we are close, but they can’t see us.

“It must’ve been an illusion, pa,” says my son. His tunic is soaked by sea and sweat as he rips oar against cruel wave. “The heat makes one see things while fishing. Perhaps there’s no cave.”

I struggle to speak and strain through the invisibility incantation I have surrounding us and our boat, “Row boy! It was no illusion. It’s our only salvation.”

From Guest Contributor John Martinez

The Lessons

Lydia played the piano hoping that would make her parents smile. Her daddy broke some furniture. He bought an accordion and she took lessons. He kicked the dog. Her parents came to see her dance recital. Her daddy yelled at her mama for flirting with a man. He gave her a black eye. Lydia took swimming lessons. Her daddy took her fishing and threw her in the lake yelling “Swim.” She went down down down to the murky bottom where a huge whiskered catfish blinked at her. It was very peaceful. She came up and swam away from the boat.

From Guest Contributor Sandra Ramos O'Briant

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving. A time to appreciate loved ones.

Sitting on the couch, smelling the delicious aroma of the turkey, George watches his grandchildren play Monopoly with his son, Tom. The laughter of their tiny voices brings joy to his heart. Watching them brings back memories of his childhood, fishing with his dad and his proud voice when he made his first catch.

The meal finally makes it to the dining room table and Tom will do the honors of slicing the turkey.

George’s aide helps him to the table. He sits and savors every moment, knowing this is his last Thanksgiving.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher