Inspired by a chat (here on the WP) about ‘fishing-matter’ with Manja Mexi Movie, here’s her blog, post Something Fishy
The Child and The Sea
It was an early afternoon. Rays of lights danced delicately across the snow and the tall trees cast their reflection on the west side of the lake creating a dark silhouettes against the white piles of the snow. A girl have sat on the dock looking at the last sun of December.
She suddenly (as it always happen in the stories like this) noticed a very old man, standing very close to the water.
“My big fish must be somewhere. My big fish must be somewhere,” – whispered a man on the repeat.
“Hey,” – a girl said.
“Hey, small bird. Where’s my fish, my marlin? My big, big marlin? Have you seen it?” – his voice was strong and a little bit fruity, like a syrup she cooked from the apples this morning.
“Marlin? I have never seen or heard of such a fish.” – her attention switched to a hare running from the bush to the tree.
“I’ve killed it, – said old man proudly, – would be great to talk to Manolin, but…you should go home, girl. Women bring a bad luck.”
“No. I want to see how you’ll catch a fish in this lake. My dada said there’re no fishes here, because the factory killed them all. Long time ago.”
“I’ve supposed to be at the sea. I have to talk to Hemingway. Do you know where I can find him?”
“No. But I can ask Google, in my house” – she waved to the east side of the lake with a lot of houses located in a row.
“Is it your father’s name? How long from your lake to the sea?” – he asked.
“Hahaha. By feet? Couple of months…” – a girl started to jump around of the old man and seems it irritated him. Or maybe that was the saddest thing he ever heard.
“I wish the boy was here,” – he said with a heartbroken voice.
Life isn’t easy. Life is a light of the darkness. Life is the the spirit which is forever dead.
Life is a stop,
and a freedom,
the blood in your mouth,
or painful choice,
the lost opportunities,
about a fish and the sea.
“What happened to him?” – she never gave up.
“Yeah. Women are cruel.”
“What do you know, child?” – the man smiled.
“I know. They drive my dada mad. Thats what he’s saying. When he’s drunk he’s shouting he’ll fight them until he’ll die.”
“Go home. Don’t you have any friends to play with?”
“Yes. A bird, named Beer. He is a beast. One day I’ll paint him on the wall of the Church at the end of the village. I’ll be a very famous painter, like your Hemingway.”
“He is a writer.”
“Ok. But I’ll be Hemingway-painter.”
Painter? Now you are getting confused in the head, Santiago. You must keep your head clear. Keep your head clear and find your fish. – he thought.
“Whatever. Go home. I’ll wait for a fish… I meant, Hemingway.” – added old man after a pause.
“But I don’t want to leave you alone here. It’s getting dark.”
“No man is ever alone on the sea…”
“It is a lake. – she decided to open a couple of more ‘truths’ before leaving that strange man on the dock. – And its a winter. And Hemingway is dead. And…”
“Please, stop. Good bye.”
“Bye, Marlin. I’ll think of you, and your fish.” – said her sunny voice.
“My big fish must be somewhere. My big fish must be somewhere” – whispered a man on the repeat. – I think the Great DiMaggio would be proud of me today.”
Day day ay, ay, ay, ayyyyy – responded the wind.