Flash Fish Flop
Michael’s entry failed to impress judge Michelle Elvy during her adjudication of short stories in the Fish Publishing Flash Fiction prize draw. Three hundred words is all you get to recite a riveting tale that relates a narrative with the start, middle, and conclusion of a fictional story. In classic style, true to himself and cycle-couriers, Kowalsky inked a dispatch that captured the essence of the seaside’s daily catch being cooked and delivered post haste by bike. We share it with you coupled with a challenge to try to outperform his contribution in the competition’s next edition, even just for the halibut. Without further ado, here are his 267 words. Enjoy!
Flash Fried Fish:
Flash fried fish is an epicurean delicacy enjoyed by foodies and, thus, the thrill of the gill accompanies the fun of the fin. Translation? A client orders fish and chips, stat, from the fry hut on the seaside and the cook rushes to prepare the dish battered in breading and served with a wedge of lemon and a two ounce cup of tangy tartar. Soon thereafter, a courier swiftly arrives on the scene to shuttle the meal up the slope to the customer faster than a lightning bolt on wheels.
Fishy scents envelop the ozone and intoxicate the street folk. The seafood is most fortunately kept warm by the deliverer’s dorsal sweat who deftly darts betwixt moving vehicles, bewildered onlookers, and unwitting passersby, hugging the narrow margins of the roadway. Climbing uphill rapidly, there is a draft in the courier’s dreadlocks, while unsteadily the bicycle underfoot begins to speed wobble and rattle as it sails over the incongruently laid cobblestone.
The courier blazes a trail and succeeds in breaking the sound barrier; the sonic boom echoes against the neighbourhood’s brick walls. A flow of molten lava wouldn’t scorch the terrain hotter than the visceral tangibility of the people’s potatoes and the proletariat’s trout snuggly encapsulated in the courier’s insulated rucksack.
The fish fetcher surpasses expectations and surprises the empty stomachs ahead of schedule, whipping the rear wheel around in a breathtaking fishtail and concluding this fabulously famine-finishing fish tale with a devilishly delicious proverb. Indeed, the lesson learnt? Give a fellow a fish, they eat today. Teach a cyclist to deliver fish, the villagers feast ad infinitum.
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Meanwhile David’s creation recounted the story of a rain drenched delivery. However he was too bashful to submit his 230 words to the contest.
Fish Run:
‘Ding’ the chime alerts me from my stupor on the bench and I slowly unfold. Like a crab slowly emerging I draw my hands from my pockets and I reach up to slide my coat hood off my head. Pulling the phone from its pouch, the screen is blinding in the dark, gray, drizzling late fall evening. ‘Fish’ I think, as I check the screen, it’s been a while since a fish run. I unfold more, tap the phone, drop it into its pouch and stand. I stretch my muscles and joints. I step out from the bus shelter that has been my refuge from the rain, and collect my bike. I throw a leg over the frame, turn on my lights, and roll into the darkness. Rush hour is almost over and the streets are still filled. The spray of rain as I roll is punctuated by the squeak of windshield wipers, the rumble of engines, and the shrill screams of car horns. Moments later I hop off the bike, lock up to a parking meter, and step into the hot hustle and bustle of the chippy. I’m assaulted by the enticing odor of frying fish, the clatter of the kitchen crew, and the rumble of a dozen conversations between the restaurant patrons. I collect the order, put it into my bag, and step back out into the rain.
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We certainly had fun with this project. There were thought bubbles dancing above our heads asking ‘What if we win?’ Alas, next year we’ll have another spin and we’ll determine if we chuck or maintain the same unimaginative marine theme. Until then, may your lights be green!
