paradoxical
03-13-2010, 05:38 PM
I wrote the first draft of this story awhile back, and have revised it a couple of times since then. I would love to hear any and all feedback. Please be honest, if you think it's bad, I would still like to hear your thoughts on what is wrong with it. Thanks.
Not Even a Small Thing
The old man sighed. He adjusted his cap, muttered a curse in Japanese, then threw out his line. He let the bait fall to the bottom, and glanced up at the setting sun, which was slowly disappearing below the line of trees on the other side of the pond. Best time of day to fish, he thought.
He tried to recall a Native American legend about the place the sun journeyed to after it went below the horizon, but it wouldn't come. The wind began to blow harder, shaking the slender leaves of the willow trees. Tiny waves appeared on the surface of the pond, and he watched a small water bug dance across the ripples.
Suddenly there were two quick bumps on his line and he pulled back hard, trying to set the hook, but he was too slow and the fish got away. It's old age, he thought. Not good. Not good at all. Disgusted, he threw down the rod and reel. He had not caught a fish since the surgery last month but he knew that he could do it if he kept trying.
When he first came to America, he lived in Texas, in a suburb north of Dallas. He thought of all the fish he had caught when he lived there. He had even saved enough money for a nice boat. Then, the divorce and, later, the death of his son. He had recovered, but he still felt the loss deep within his heart. He even remarried again but that marriage had also ended in divorce.
Now he was alone and had turned 70 last year – was still healthy but had grown chubby and was almost completely bald. He knew that he would remain alone. He had never bought a boat, he felt that it would be wrong to spend such a large sum on himself, even though he had enough money. Maybe if his son was still alive. So he fished from the bank, just as he had done in Japan.
He was in a small clearing on the edge of the water, sitting on a bait bucket that he used to keep live shad. The clearing was surrounded by trees and vines, except for a small path leading back to the main trail. He had used a machete to clear away the vines and branches from the waters edge. It was hard enough trying to fish without losing hooks and lures in the trees, and nobody ever came to this pond except for him. He felt a certain sense of ownership. If he wanted to clear away trees or make a path, it was his right.
He began to hear sounds coming from the woods behind him. Something was moving. Probably an animal, he thought. He took a sip from the flask he kept in his hip pocket. Behind him, the sounds were getting louder. He could hear something breathing heavily and a kind of whimpering sound coming from the trees. He took another hit from the flask, stood up slowly, with cracking joints, and began to walk cautiously up the trail.
He tried to move silently, but had lost most of his balance and coordination after drinking the whiskey. He moved awkwardly, and with much noise, in the direction of the trees. As he moved closer he began to hear people whispering, then a girl's voice, and laughter.
When he reached a place on the trail where a large tree had fallen, he saw a pile of clothing lying on the ground. There were jeans, an Adidas t-shirt, shoes, and a girl's blouse. Then he saw a young couple lying across a blanket on the other side of the dead tree. Hakujin, white people. They were holding each other and kissing, and had not heard him when he was walking toward them.
The old man quickly turned his head, then – as quietly as he could -- began to walk back down the trail. He reached the clearing, walked to the edge of the water and stood there for a moment gazing across the pond and thinking about what he had seen. He opened the bait bucket and reached in for a shad. He sat down, picked up his rod and reel, and hooked the shad through both eyes. He threw the line out far, into the deeper water, and waited until he felt the bait hit bottom. Then he began to reel in slowly, taking up the slack in his line.
He took another drink without taking his eyes from the line. When he was satisfied that it was in an ideal spot, he stopped reeling and let the line sit, keeping it as tight as possible. Now he was determined to catch a fish. It had become something he must do. The sun was almost completely gone but he would stay until he had a bite. After half an hour he felt a tug on the line. He pulled hard, setting the hook. He started reeling in and felt the fish begin to fight. And then, as soon as it had begun, he felt the line go slack. He had lost the fish.
He decided to try one more time. He would be able to fish by the light of the moon, if necessary. Fish often ran at night, especially with the moon nearly full. He stood up, grabbed another bait fish, then sat back down. He hooked the threadfin shad – beautiful and majestic in its own way -- which was now dead from the lack of oxygen in the bucket and he cast out again. The wind had stopped blowing and a calm had come over the water. As soon as the bait hit the surface of the water, he reached into his front pocket and removed the small pocket knife he always carried. He cut the line, thinking of the small fish, its struggle now over, sinking down into that muddy darkness where it would disappear forever.
Not Even a Small Thing
The old man sighed. He adjusted his cap, muttered a curse in Japanese, then threw out his line. He let the bait fall to the bottom, and glanced up at the setting sun, which was slowly disappearing below the line of trees on the other side of the pond. Best time of day to fish, he thought.
He tried to recall a Native American legend about the place the sun journeyed to after it went below the horizon, but it wouldn't come. The wind began to blow harder, shaking the slender leaves of the willow trees. Tiny waves appeared on the surface of the pond, and he watched a small water bug dance across the ripples.
Suddenly there were two quick bumps on his line and he pulled back hard, trying to set the hook, but he was too slow and the fish got away. It's old age, he thought. Not good. Not good at all. Disgusted, he threw down the rod and reel. He had not caught a fish since the surgery last month but he knew that he could do it if he kept trying.
When he first came to America, he lived in Texas, in a suburb north of Dallas. He thought of all the fish he had caught when he lived there. He had even saved enough money for a nice boat. Then, the divorce and, later, the death of his son. He had recovered, but he still felt the loss deep within his heart. He even remarried again but that marriage had also ended in divorce.
Now he was alone and had turned 70 last year – was still healthy but had grown chubby and was almost completely bald. He knew that he would remain alone. He had never bought a boat, he felt that it would be wrong to spend such a large sum on himself, even though he had enough money. Maybe if his son was still alive. So he fished from the bank, just as he had done in Japan.
He was in a small clearing on the edge of the water, sitting on a bait bucket that he used to keep live shad. The clearing was surrounded by trees and vines, except for a small path leading back to the main trail. He had used a machete to clear away the vines and branches from the waters edge. It was hard enough trying to fish without losing hooks and lures in the trees, and nobody ever came to this pond except for him. He felt a certain sense of ownership. If he wanted to clear away trees or make a path, it was his right.
He began to hear sounds coming from the woods behind him. Something was moving. Probably an animal, he thought. He took a sip from the flask he kept in his hip pocket. Behind him, the sounds were getting louder. He could hear something breathing heavily and a kind of whimpering sound coming from the trees. He took another hit from the flask, stood up slowly, with cracking joints, and began to walk cautiously up the trail.
He tried to move silently, but had lost most of his balance and coordination after drinking the whiskey. He moved awkwardly, and with much noise, in the direction of the trees. As he moved closer he began to hear people whispering, then a girl's voice, and laughter.
When he reached a place on the trail where a large tree had fallen, he saw a pile of clothing lying on the ground. There were jeans, an Adidas t-shirt, shoes, and a girl's blouse. Then he saw a young couple lying across a blanket on the other side of the dead tree. Hakujin, white people. They were holding each other and kissing, and had not heard him when he was walking toward them.
The old man quickly turned his head, then – as quietly as he could -- began to walk back down the trail. He reached the clearing, walked to the edge of the water and stood there for a moment gazing across the pond and thinking about what he had seen. He opened the bait bucket and reached in for a shad. He sat down, picked up his rod and reel, and hooked the shad through both eyes. He threw the line out far, into the deeper water, and waited until he felt the bait hit bottom. Then he began to reel in slowly, taking up the slack in his line.
He took another drink without taking his eyes from the line. When he was satisfied that it was in an ideal spot, he stopped reeling and let the line sit, keeping it as tight as possible. Now he was determined to catch a fish. It had become something he must do. The sun was almost completely gone but he would stay until he had a bite. After half an hour he felt a tug on the line. He pulled hard, setting the hook. He started reeling in and felt the fish begin to fight. And then, as soon as it had begun, he felt the line go slack. He had lost the fish.
He decided to try one more time. He would be able to fish by the light of the moon, if necessary. Fish often ran at night, especially with the moon nearly full. He stood up, grabbed another bait fish, then sat back down. He hooked the threadfin shad – beautiful and majestic in its own way -- which was now dead from the lack of oxygen in the bucket and he cast out again. The wind had stopped blowing and a calm had come over the water. As soon as the bait hit the surface of the water, he reached into his front pocket and removed the small pocket knife he always carried. He cut the line, thinking of the small fish, its struggle now over, sinking down into that muddy darkness where it would disappear forever.