Instalment Twenty Six

The Fishmonger lived a happy, contented life with his wife. He worked hard, passing years saw the wooden handle of his trusty steel blade conform to the shape of his palm while gutting and scaling, the knife edge never dulled.

Returning home each night he was greeted by his wife and her smile. For she was known for that smile, some in the village said she beamed as if the crescent moon.

She died in labour, taking the child with her. The Fishmonger was inconsolable. Sitting alone, days turned to weeks turned to months, staring out into the grey swell, his right hand choking tight round the wooden handle.

“I would rather drown in this North Sea,” he shouted into the spray, “than continue to drown within this sorrow.”

And with his knife he carved an upturned half-circle, deep into his left arm. It bled profusely, healed badly and scarred magnificently.

Those in the village that knew her said it was a fitting tribute to his wife and her wonderful smile.

They came knocking, “I too am sad, carve in me a tombstone,” they pleaded.

So he did.

Engraving sorrows in their flesh with his knife, the anguished Fishmonger, Tattoo.

Instalment Twenty Five

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Clarification.
In its current form this story contains 200 words. When translated it contains 200 characters (discounting spaces but including full-stops), so depending on your point of view I may have cheated, but I don’t believe so. Translation in the comments below.

Instalment Twenty Four

We’ve been in every yard in three blocks of my house, every one of ‘em. Mapped ‘em out. Whose gotta pool, a trampoline, dog, apple tree, what fences are too hard to climb and what time people got home from work.

It was all on our map. We owned the neighbourhood, running free. It was ours to play in, to play with, as long as we stayed on our map we were safe. The map of our world. It was the best summer I ever had, except for one thing.

Our map had a hole, a big, blank, white hole. In the top right, were the compass should go. It was a house, a big one, with a bigger yard and an even bigger brick fence. It was dark and overgrown and we were all too afraid to go in there.

Until a Greek family moved in across the street, with their kid Atlas. A sad kid, seemed to carry the weight of the world on his shoulders but he showed us the way. So we climbed that fence by the gate. One by one, using the brass nameplate “The Fallows,” as a foothold. We were in the last yard. . .

to be concluded.