“A Fisherman’s Tail” is a fun, quirky fantasy comedy centered around some old fisherman and one newcomer, Tad. What unfolds at the end of this pier is both reminiscent of the fishing gurus of today with a flair of magic and a sprinkle of old man humor. A favorite among listeners when read at open mics!
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The peach colored sun had broken away from the purple horizon when Tad made it to the fishing pier. Every fisherman in the region knew the best spot was at the far end where the water looked black as pitch. It was impossible to weasel in between the old timers who claimed the railing at the tip of the dock. In fact, it was considered a rite of passage to fish among those fishing gurus. Tad and the younger newcomers joked on occasion about how they never left the pier, as if immortally soul bound to the old, rickety pier. One time, he thought he would get himself a spot, braving to go down the pier during a bad storm. Salt stung his eyes and nostrils, waves knocking him down to his knees. Much to his horror, the old men were all there, fishing on as if the waves splashing over them were a summer’s breeze.
Snorting, he thought, today that is going to change!
He started marching down the wooden appendage, his steps echoing and bouncing the whole way, determined to elbow his way between two of the old skin-and-bone entities for a chance to gain a good round of fishing. At the rate he was catching, he earned enough fish to feed himself and pay for his bait, nothing more. Drawing near, he tightened his grip on his pole and bait bucket.
Stumbling to a stop, he blinked; one of the five fishing gurus was missing. Rubbing his eyes, he stared at the empty corner on the right side, astonished. Walking up to the railing, he held his breath as they all turned to take notice of him.
“Well look at this, boys!” chuckled the bristly faced man next to him. “We’ve got ourselves a replacement.”
The man next to him, the middle fishing sage, whistled, “Ain’t he pretty.”
“Not for long!” shouted the tallest one at the opposite corner.
This sent the quartet of smelly, greasy, unshaven old men into a roar of laughter.
“Shush, Gerald!” warned the man next to the tall one. “Let the boy fish.”
“All right,” sighed Gerald.
“What you fishing for?” The middle man in the group lifted an eye brow. “Dog fish? Grouper? Maybe snapper even?”
Tad smirked, deciding to appeal to their humor, “A wife.”
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