Birthday Fish

I've actually already submitted this story to a small magazine and received a nice response. What I'm looking for here on this forum is some help on what the editor said was wrong with it: pacing in some spots and a few lapses in structure.

I'm a rookie when it comes to this writing game. I'm not really sure where the best place is in the story to add some description, or perhaps omit something unneccessary to make it flow better.

Any and all suggestions, criticism, compliments, or critiques welcome. :)





I remember the summer of 1976. It was the year the Big Lady almost made my mother a widow and abducted her only son.

Every year on his birthday, my father would plan a trip to visit his mistress--the Big Lady. I remember accompanying him on these expeditions from the moment I could crawl. My mother never protested this infidelity, but seldom would join us. An invitation was always offered.

“No, you boys just go have fun,” said Mom.

She knew she would be as out of place as a man at a baby-shower, and had no real inclination to intrude on our activities.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come along this time,” said Dad, feigning disappointment.

Another eye-rolling polite refusal by my mother, and we were free to make preparations for our adventure with her approval. A list of essential provisions was made the night before we set out. To forget a crucial item such as the camera would be an unforgivable sin. There would be no turning back for retrieval of anything left behind once we were on the road. Any frivolous delay in the morning would be frowned upon by my father. An early bedtime was required for me, so I would be well-rested for tomorrow.

It seemed like my head had barely touched the pillow when my father roused me with a gentle shake on the shoulder.

“Wake up, it’s time to get going,” he said in a hushed voice. “Try to be quiet. Your mother’s still sleeping.”

He anxiously paced around the bedroom as I hurriedly hopped into my clothes that had been laid out for me the previous night. We crept through the house like burglars, raiding the refrigerator of a snack, and made our way out to the station-wagon. The boat was already hitched to the back on a trailer.

Before dawn cracked we were on the highway, speeding along towards our rendezvous with the Big Lady. A makeshift breakfast of a cola and chocolate doughnuts sufficed as there was no time to waste on a normal morning meal. There was a reason my mother didn’t allow such a sweet diet for me, and I think my father understood why after spending just a few moments in the car listening to the high-pitched, excited rambling of a six-year-old kid overdosed on sugar.

“Are we there yet? Are we there yet?” I persistently asked every couple of minutes, fidgeting in my seat.

“Pretty soon,” he constantly repeated.

Not able to run off my sugar rush from breakfast, I let my mouth continue to do the running, bombarding my father with a barrage of questions as we drove. My curiosity ignited by chocolate.

“How many fish are in the lake? Why is water blue? How come fish don’t have feet? Can worms see? Do they feel anything when the fish bites them? Are they scared when they’re in the water?”

Most of my father’s replies were brief, and after awhile “just because” became a popular response, whether or not it was an appropriate answer.

Two hours of driving and a thousand questions later, the Big Lady came into view. She was in a turbulent disposition this morning, frothing at the mouth of the bay like a rabid dog--waves crashing against the shoreline throwing up a white spray of foam. Her angry mood was not apt to change according to weather predictions.

My father and I rushed to embrace her with one goal in mind. Extract his birthday present, which she always yielded. More than half of these gifts ended up in the frying pan. The exceptional were stuffed and displayed upon the wall in our basement.

The upcoming storm would not make it easy this time. The sky was filled with ominous black clouds that had the clear promise of an imminent downpour. But my father would not be denied. Nothing short of a tsunami could deter him.

The wind gusted transforming each wave into a roller-coaster ride. He piloted our small fishing-boat up to the peak of each wave, the outboard-motor sputtering to get us to the pinnacle, and then, we would go plummeting, lost among a valley of watery hills. I found no thrill in this, and my stomach felt queasy. Maybe my mother was right about cola and doughnuts being an inappropriate breakfast, I thought, as I began to turn the color of seaweed.

“Don’t worry,” said Dad. “Once we get anchored, we’ll just bob like a cork.”

I had my doubts. A bright orange life preserver fastened tightly around me constricted my movement like a straitjacket. It did offer some assurance of safety, and necessary for a small boy who could barely dog-paddle. I clenched the edge of the seat as we crested the next mountainous wave, catching a glimpse of a solitary boat in the distance, flying a tiny yellow flag adorned with a smiley face from a metal staff--a cheerful pirate in pursuit of treasures untold my imagination prompted me to think. At least it momentarily took my mind off my churning stomach. Soon the buccaneer was lost from sight, probably landed on a hidden island searching for his doubloons of gold. Or maybe he had sunk to the bottom of the lake. His pirate ship did not actually look that much different than our own fishing-boat.

My rain poncho flapped like a kite in the wind. It was already proving its value by deflecting the spray from the crashing waves. Now that we were close to the middle of the lake, the Big Lady looked like a vast blue desert with rolling dunes. I thought I could see a mirage of shore far away.

“Let’s go back in,” I said, “I’m scared Dad!”

“We’ll be all right,” he replied.

My father’s stoic attitude did little to calm my fears. If the boat capsized, it was at least five miles to land. That depended on which way the wind would sweep me along in the waves. It could be a greater distance.

He turned off the outboard motor and dropped the anchor over the side. My hopes of convincing my father to go back in to shore sank like the anchor.

“Might as well give it a try as long as we’re out here,” he said.

I am sure safety was a priority to my father, but it was running neck-and-neck with catching his damn birthday fish.

He had the hands of a surgeon in an operating room as he tied a hook onto the end of a line, threading a worm skillfully onto the barb, before handing the fishing-pole to me. I held the rod in a vice-like grip. My father began his own preparations without any sign of worry given to the escalating wind. He hummed a country song that did not seem to soothe the Big Lady. She continued to toss our vessel around her curvaceous body. Our rods seemed to dance with the rhythm of the tune and the rocking of the boat.

The storm unleashed its fury upon us. Torrential cascades of water came down completing my misery.

“Any bites yet?” he asked.

I whispered, “No.”

My mother would be worried sick back at home, I thought. I wished I had stayed behind in that safe haven instead of participating in fighting the elements of this storm. All for the sake of a foolish birthday ritual.

My father suddenly jerked up on his rod.

“Here it is!” he exclaimed. “Happy birthday to me!”

I could tell this would satisfy the possessed man’s lust from the way the rod bent in half. I said a silent prayer hoping there would be no escape for the fish at the end of the line. He cranked the reels with unbridled enthusiasm, hoisting the trophy towards the surface.

“Will you look at that honey!” he said.

I gave a furtive glance as he retrieved the net, and readied himself to adopt yet another child from the Big Lady.

A wave the size only a surfer could appreciate rocked our small vessel in a violent manner. The fishing pole, net, and my father were pitched into the gloom of the lake.

“Dad!” I cried.

My state of paralysis broke as I watched him sink into the quicksand of the blue desert. I launched myself from the seat at the bow, but it was like trying to walk on an airplane as it rapidly descended on its final approach for landing. Another wave blasted the boat sending me sprawling. I lost my balance and went down hard, hitting my head on a metal tackle box on the floor.

I awoke from my unwanted nap soaked to the skin. The poncho only reflected the rain falling from above. The boat slowly had become a bathtub as I lay unconscious. There was still no sign of anyone eager to shut off the faucets in the sky.

Crawling the remainder of the way through a rising river of rain water, I reached the spot near the rear of the boat where my father had been thrown overboard and looked into the lake. My own rain began to fall as tears drizzled down my face. I was all alone! Or so I thought…

The gradually building river in the bottom of the boat shifted direction and began flowing towards the front. I stared in confusion at the sudden change of momentum that had left me on a dry floor. The cause of this dampened my spirits even more, if that was possible.

A large lizard-like creature perched on the bow of the boat, its thick tail hanging in the water--a prehistoric looking alligator, twice the size of me. Its considerable bulk prevented the vessel from floating to the top of each wave; the boat barreled straight through casting new showers down upon me. The creature craned its neck towards the sky seeming to relish the ubiquitous moisture of the day. It opened its snout and yawned revealing rows of razor sharp teeth. The creature seemed content to remain on the bow, basking in the rain, in a state of pure ecstasy. I cowered in a corner near the outboard motor, trying to remain still, but shaking uncontrollably. My new companion was obviously no vegetarian, and I had no desire to find out what its diet consisted of.

A flash of lightning illuminated the monstrosity in a vivid, horrible illustration. It startled the creature. Slinking off the bow, it landed with a splash as it belly-flopped into the bottom of the boat. The creature appeared sluggish as it opened its mouth in another yawn, fanning its webbed feet in the accumulating water that continued to fill the boat. Its tail swished back and forth like a puppy that was ready to play. The creature’s eyes glowed in the dim light of the ongoing storm as it directed its hungry looking gaze towards me. It arched back on its rear haunches as if it were ready to pounce.

I had no intention of waiting to see what it would do next. The tackle box was heavy, but under great duress I found the strength to awkwardly lift it, my movement restricted by the life-preserver. I held it high above my head and heaved it at the monster. The box flew open as it connected with the side of the creature’s head. A variety of tackle exploded around the creature as I saw a lure with a treble hook embed itself in one of the monster’s eyes. It bellowed a roar of anger and pain like nothing I had ever heard before in my life--a dissonant combination of sounds--snarls, gargles, and shrieks all mixed together. It shook its head from side to side, tail lashing destructively around whipping against the sides of the boat, and suddenly lunged in my direction.

I jumped…

The darkness surrounded me. A moment later I bobbed to the surface, spitting water and gasping for air. The creature peered off the side of the boat. The treble hook still dangling from its eye. The waves were carrying me away at a rapid pace. If the creature would be slow to exit the boat, I had a chance of survival. I would soon disappear from the proximity as I was being propelled away in the strong winds.

My hopes soon vanished as I saw the swirl of water next to the boat. The creature had slipped into the lake. My bright orange life-preserver must look like a big bull’s-eye floating through the water, I thought. Now I knew how the bait felt as it saw the fish come cruising in to engulf it.

The minutes seemed like hours as I began to imagine how the creature would consume me. I was more than a snack for it, but less than a meal. It would not be a quick and painless death. Several attacks would be required, shredding me into pieces with its razor sharp teeth, before it could savor a little chunk of boy. I wished for the good times when all I had to worry about was the wind, waves, and the rain.

The glowing eyes were skimming along beneath the surface of the water. I saw a glint of the lure still protruding from its left socket. The creature’s lethargic behavior in the boat was not evident here in its natural environment. It raced towards me like a torpedo fired out of a submarine. Steeling myself for the inevitable conclusion to this battle with the monster, I closed my eyes, thinking of my father.

I felt a pull on the life preserver. My eyes slammed shut tight, not wanting to be a witness to my own demise. Suddenly I was lifted from the water like a kitten by the scruff of its neck.

The man gave me a slight smile and said, “You were a lot easier to scoop out of the lake than your Dad.”

The baseball cap he was wearing read, “And on the 8th day, God created fishing…” I could think of a billion better things to make if I had my choice right now. I lay on the floor of the boat, looking up at my father and the cheerful pirate.

“I suppose it’s about time to head back in,” said Dad. “Unless you want to try it a little longer?”

I shook my head vehemently, staring in disbelief at my father.

“Yeah, I already have what I came for,” he said, picking up the net which had been thrown overboard with him, holding up a large walleye. He had held onto the net even as he was struggling not to drown. His birthday fish had not escaped…

I urged the man to start the motor and get us back safely to shore. My father or the man did not understand my apprehension as I peeked over the side of the boat, searching for a pair of glowing eyes coming out of the depths. They were rather skeptical of my story of large swimming lizards with very sharp teeth. What they saw was a frightened child, who had jumped into the lake trying to save his Dad.

The storm subsided and the cheerful pirate attached a rope to tow our boat gravid with water back to shore. Once back on dry land, my father surveyed the condition of our boat. He picked up the litter of tackle that he assumed had simply spilled out of the metal box.

“Hmmm, can’t seem to find my favorite lucky lure,” he said, standing in the boat hitched to the trailer.

I was already in the car, seatbelt secured, and more than ready to go home. I knew where to find that lure, I thought, and I had to admit, it was a lucky one.

My father told his tale quite different than mine when we returned home. My mother listened with a frown upon her face. She obviously did not like either version of our escapade, and forbid me to go out on the lake for the next year. That was completely all right with me. I felt like the one who had got away in one of my father’s exaggerated fish stories.

That night my sleep was filled with haunted dreams. I had turned into a worm hanging from a hook in the water, squirming around, trying to escape as I saw a pair of glowing eyes coming at me. When I awoke in the morning, I made a vow I would never go fishing again. I wondered where the creature was lurking today. Did it ever stray closer to shore, maybe around the beaches on the west end of the lake, or did it stay near the middle, only surfacing once in a while to enjoy a good storm?


Many years later, I have broken my vow. My Dad has passed away, leaving behind an encyclopedia size set of photo albums, half a century of fishing on the Big Lady. Among those pictures are the birthday fish, all highlighted and recorded with the year printed below each one. When I look through these pictures, I always stop and stare at just one. The year 1976 is printed on it. My father has a grim looking smile on his face. I stand alongside of him, still wearing my rain poncho, a bright orange life- preserver, and a baseball cap with the words, “And on the 8th day, God created fishing…”

It is July 3rd, 2006. Thirty years have transpired since I last visited the lake. I pull the cord on the motor bringing it to life. I race out towards the middle of the lake, opening the cover on a small urn. The ashes trail off behind the boat, scattering over the water. It was always my father’s wish to be cremated; now he was at peace with the Big Lady. I know he will be found exceptional and placed upon the wall in heaven, and not cast into the frying pan.

The lake has an unusual calm to it as I shut off the motor. I release the anchor, watching it sink into the depths. It was time to add another photo to the collection. I put my line in the water and wait, just one bite, just one fish, a birthday fish…

Several feet below the boat, a pair of glowing eyes skimmed along searching for something more appetizing than a worm…

I really like the story you have going, here, but I can see the issue about pacing. I want to read it through a few more times, and then I can offer an actual critique, lol. My first impression of it is very good, though!

Keep up the good work! =)

That's a good story, you're able to write, no question. When you're describing something, you're able to rise to the occasion and be vivid, like describing the croc when he made the noise as the hook went into his eye - those mixed sounds, I liked that. And there were lots of funny parts, too, to keep the story boosting along - like when you said the croc was no vegetarian; and the nice bit about descrying the little pirate boat in the distance, and the bit about the cap where God created fishing on the eighth day.

I couldn't see anything really wrong with the story, maybe a few quibbling points, which might be right or might be wrong. It looks like a story where you say to yourself: this is good, this person can write, I'd say his next story, and the one after that, will improve and improve. I'd say, if you keep writing, it's only a matter of time before you'll be accepted, if you haven't been already or before. And I'd say that's why the mag editor encouraged your ability but refused at the same time. I'd say he was thinking to himself: good, but I'll refuse just for now and will look forward to reading the next story.

I think the shortcomings of your story, whatever they may vaguely be, are not to be fixed by changing the story, but just by continuing your learning by creating new stories. Because, like I say, I don't think there's anything really inherently wrong with your story. It just looks like the story of a promising writer - who is vivid and has a sense of humour - getting to learn his craft. And you are not wasting your time writing. It looks like an auspicious apprenticeship. The essentials are there. Good luck!!