I haven't written flash fiction in a long time--and it used to be all I did! Weird to get back to it... But
Patti Abbott posted this challenge, and I had to join:
This time the prompt comes from a headline from 1913 in a Detroit paper:
MICHIGAN MAN'S TASTES GET HIM INTO TROUBLE.
I have no idea what the story was about because the print is so tiny. And I don't want to know, nor should you. Make it your own story. Feel free to change Michigan to whatever state or place you want. In fact, I suggest it. Maybe the places will factor in heavily. So the title of every story will be the same except for the place.The locales can make it zing.
My story plays in Mississippi--I have to set a story here at least once. Even though the place is still very much a mystery to me, I get what locals love: the coast, the mild-ish winter, nature, the boating. Oh, and I got to swim with the bat rays at Horn Island once, which is pretty amazing. So I had to work that in there.
Anyway, here's my (kid-friendly) story...
MISSISSIPPI MAN'S TASTES GET HIM INTO TROUBLE
It wasn’t a good day for fishing. Junior knew this before he
even made it to the pier, so he took a detour. He walked the adjacent boating
docks, like he always did with Daddy. Well, until last April’s bad Sunday
anyway. Daddy didn’t like to go fishing much anymore. Not even on Sunday
mornings, when Momma was busy with church.
The water
was too flat, the sun too harsh, the air too thick with Mississippi humidity.
Had to get out in the Gulf a few miles for good fishing, past the barrier
islands, where the water was fresh and clear. If you lived on the Mississippi
coast, you needed to have a boat. Everyone knew that to be true. Especially
Daddy.
Junior
walked the docks, past the boats that bobbed gently in the water. It was busy
for a Sunday, lots of folk buzzing about, getting ready for next week’s boat
show. There were sales people in suits, tanned men with slicked back hair and
too-white teeth, and boaters minding their vessels. Junior clutched his small cooler,
the one with his name in washed-out Sharpie letters on the bottom. He was sorry
now that he spent his last few dollars on bait. Nothing was going to bite on a
day like today.
Daddy
would’ve known it too. Junior always hoped he’d run into Daddy on the docks during
these Sunday morning trips.
Glad I caught ya’ll here, son. Gonna be a
tough day for angling, but we’ll get ‘em.
And then
they’d walk to the adjoining pier. Catch ten fish, like the one time last year,
or nothing—Junior really didn’t care. He just liked listening to Daddy talk about
the water, the fish, the boat he would buy. They’d take it out to Horn Island
where the beaches were white and the water was clear. You could swim with the bat
rays, Daddy said. Here in Gulfport, the water was so murky, you couldn’t see
your line past an inch once it got into the water. Hard to know what you were
catching. And nobody in their right mind went swimming here.
No more
dreaming of a boat or Horn Island trips now. Not after it had turned so sour.
Junior just
about reached the end of the dock, but saw a cluster of adults blocking his way.
He was about to turn around and head to the pier, when he smelled it. The cigar
smoke—sweet, acrid. Only a whiff, but Junior knew it was him.
Tucker
Williams. Or whatever the guy’s name really was.
“Got the
cash, baby.” That was his voice—Tucker for sure.
Junior
clutched his cooler and fishing pole. Felt the sweat drip down the side of his
face as he turned. And he quickly walked back the way he came, trying to forget
that voice and the cigar smoke. But the smell got stuck up his nose.
Junior
stopped. Could practically feel the soles of his worn flip-flops melt on the
hot wood planks of the dock.
All our savings! Junior could hear Momma
yell at Daddy like it was yesterday. You
done got yourself swindled. That boat wasn’t even his! Didn’t you think to
check the papers?
Tucker
Williams.
Of course Daddy reported the
theft to the police—after he got arrested on the boat not an hour later. All
their life savings for a vessel that belonged to a couple in Florida with no
interest in selling. The papers that this Tucker fellow had given Daddy were
fake. And Daddy had handed him all their money, in a small cooler like Junior
carried today. Tucker had told Daddy to bring it like that. Safer that way.
The swindler was gone. Happened
all the time, police said once Daddy explained what happened. Not much to do,
not with a cash deal on the docks. Murky
business. That’s what the policeman called it.
Junior turned back around. Felt
the fire lit under him, like a hot Mississippi July day. He made his way past
the crowd, to the far end of the dock. There was that smell again. Stronger
this time, lingering in the humid air.
The low morning sun’s glare made
it hard to see, but it was Tucker Williams alright. He sat on a bench, away
from all the boats. Talking on the phone, smoking one of those thin cigars.
Tucker shot him a glance, but looked away. To him, Junior was just another kid
with a fishing pole.
He doesn’t even remember me. Junior bit his cheek.
“I’m done here now, sweetie.
Comin’ your way right quick—we can have a late breakfast at that place you like.”
There was a cooler, sitting on the bench next to Tucker.
Junior forced himself to walk
over. He sat down next to the guy, pretending to get his line ready for fishing.
Tucker turned away a bit, lowered
his voice. “Or lunch. Whatever you want, hon.” He reached behind him, touching
the cooler with his fingertips. “It’s on me.” Then Tucker dropped his arm back
to his side.
Junior took his chance. He switched
the coolers quickly.
Got up. Disappeared into the
crowd.
Junior’s feet flip-flopped fast as
he hurried away. He found his favorite secluded fishing spot on the adjoining
pier before opening the cooler. Wads of hundreds, rolled neatly. Junior
couldn’t tell how much was there, but it had to be a lot. At least as much as
Daddy lost. Maybe more.
He smiled, and imagined Tucker
Williams finding that stinky bait inside the cooler. Turning it over, reading
the faded black letters on the bottom, knowing he’d been double-crossed. By a
kid.
Junior stayed in his hiding spot,
even threw out a line without the bait. There was a breeze now. The air was
lighter.
Turned out it was a good day for
fishing after all.
***
You can find links to more stories here at Patti's blog.***
