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.
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(dashdotdot dotdash dotdotdot dotdotdotdot) (dotdash dashdot dashdotdot) (dashdotdot dashdashdash dash) (dashdash dashdashdash dotdashdot dotdotdot dot) stop
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.
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.
Instalment Twenty Three
We were half way between stations before anyone in the carriage noticed the guide dog’s tail was caught in the train doors. It was no one’s fault. The dog’s owner was clearly blind, and what were us passenger supposed to do? Those dogs are so well trained, it just sat there, it didn’t bark or whine. We are always told not to pat guide dogs when they’re working, so we were being well behaved and not patting the noble, golden lab. It just sat there, a look of detachment in its eyes. For all I know that’s what they look like when they’re on duty.
A cry went up, “The dog’s tail! The dog’s tail!”
People crowded.
People yelled.
“The doors wont open.”
“We’ll be at the station soon.”
“Its tail could get caught between the carriage and platform!”
A human cloud of panic, a fog blinding reason.
Trying to help with no clue what to do.
“Call the dog,” the blind woman calmly said.
“What?”
“Call her with food, she’ll wag her tail,” she said.
“What do we call her?”
“You call her Clarity,” answered the blind woman, providing the same service for the passengers the dog provided her.
A cry went up, “The dog’s tail! The dog’s tail!”
People crowded.
People yelled.
“The doors wont open.”
“We’ll be at the station soon.”
“Its tail could get caught between the carriage and platform!”
A human cloud of panic, a fog blinding reason.
Trying to help with no clue what to do.
“Call the dog,” the blind woman calmly said.
“What?”
“Call her with food, she’ll wag her tail,” she said.
“What do we call her?”
“You call her Clarity,” answered the blind woman, providing the same service for the passengers the dog provided her.
Instalment Twenty Two
Portrait of a person (woman) as . . .
The thing was she smelled like a second-hand bookshop. Or maybe of that smell clinging to second hand books. A musty smell, stale and lost. Poor ventilation perhaps, forcing odours to eddy and pool, seeping into porous pages. It might come from ageing glue, cracking and splitting the binding. The brittle yellowing paper... who knows. She was a primary school art teacher, with all that glue and paper the explanation might fit, but no.
She was used. Second hand was too kind a description. You can look at a book and tell if it has been read by just one person or by many. She had been used. Used by many and thrown back to the pile. Her once straight, shiny blond hair had lost its lustre, yellowing to straw. It was a mess of cowlicks, dog-eared this way and that. She had topped every man’s list for years, a best seller. They all wanted to get their hands on her, eating her up with their eyes, and she let them. Now weathered and wrinkled, she willed someone, someone to look past her faded youth, the smell and the aura of cheapness that clung to her chest like a necklace.
The thing was she smelled like a second-hand bookshop. Or maybe of that smell clinging to second hand books. A musty smell, stale and lost. Poor ventilation perhaps, forcing odours to eddy and pool, seeping into porous pages. It might come from ageing glue, cracking and splitting the binding. The brittle yellowing paper... who knows. She was a primary school art teacher, with all that glue and paper the explanation might fit, but no.
She was used. Second hand was too kind a description. You can look at a book and tell if it has been read by just one person or by many. She had been used. Used by many and thrown back to the pile. Her once straight, shiny blond hair had lost its lustre, yellowing to straw. It was a mess of cowlicks, dog-eared this way and that. She had topped every man’s list for years, a best seller. They all wanted to get their hands on her, eating her up with their eyes, and she let them. Now weathered and wrinkled, she willed someone, someone to look past her faded youth, the smell and the aura of cheapness that clung to her chest like a necklace.
. . . a second-hand book.
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