Hook, Line, and Sinker
by
Brett Biebel
So we’re in the backyard looking for UFOs with these binoculars Uncle Bernie always said he took off some poor dead Charlie, but really he probably got ‘em on sale at the Surplus, and my brother tells me the other day he went fishing way out in Council Bluffs and caught a piranha. I ask him how big it was.
“Size of your head.”
“Bet it nearly took your hand off,” I say, and he spits on my shoe. Says he’s never been more serious and shows me a photo. There is a fish in it. It’s got teeth. I never seen no piranha before, so how the fuck should I know, and so what I do is laugh and shake my head. “You got that from some pet store,” I say, and you never told the truth in your whole goddamn life. Not about women and not about fish, and if you ain’t gonna let me find these extraterrestrial assholes in peace and quiet then maybe it’s about time you head on back inside.
He stares at me for a minute. Fists get balled. I’m bracing for impact, but all he does is slink away like some kind of beat-up dog, and he doesn’t even slam the door. What he does is let it latch all quiet, and I sit there looking up at empty sky, and last week I head on up to see him, and we’re both thinking about that time I can tell, but we don’t say nothing. Just sit across the table shuffling cards, and you know he’s gonna go to his grave thinking I’m worse than Judas when, really, none of it’s anyone’s fault but his own.
“Size of your head.”
“Bet it nearly took your hand off,” I say, and he spits on my shoe. Says he’s never been more serious and shows me a photo. There is a fish in it. It’s got teeth. I never seen no piranha before, so how the fuck should I know, and so what I do is laugh and shake my head. “You got that from some pet store,” I say, and you never told the truth in your whole goddamn life. Not about women and not about fish, and if you ain’t gonna let me find these extraterrestrial assholes in peace and quiet then maybe it’s about time you head on back inside.
He stares at me for a minute. Fists get balled. I’m bracing for impact, but all he does is slink away like some kind of beat-up dog, and he doesn’t even slam the door. What he does is let it latch all quiet, and I sit there looking up at empty sky, and last week I head on up to see him, and we’re both thinking about that time I can tell, but we don’t say nothing. Just sit across the table shuffling cards, and you know he’s gonna go to his grave thinking I’m worse than Judas when, really, none of it’s anyone’s fault but his own.
NUNUM
Blending Flash Fiction & Art
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