Somewhere Rod could hear the gods laughing. That was the only explanation for what had happened.
It had started with a famine. His ancestors were fisherfolk: rough folk who had spent generations passing down techniques and skills. It was a poor life but a happy one, until the fish had disappeared. No one knew where they went; one day they were there, the next simply gone.
Rod's ancestor had made a deal, a deal that made him the best fishermen in that village. He had done it to save it, and save it he had. No one knew how, but he had a third eye when he came to fish. He always casts his net in just the right spot and his net always came full.
|Image by David Grigg|
One day, he had been fishing. It was a strange day: .he had tripped on his way down the stairs, the café had been closed, and he had spilled coffee in his lap. Then he had climbed into his boat, where everything was supposed to go right, but the only thing that had gone right was that his net kept coming up full.
And then came the storm. It was so sudden so unpredictable; there was really no way to prepare for it. All he could do was get below deck and hope for the best.
When he woke up he was underwater; but he wasn't dead. In fact he could breathe just fine. Looking out he could see a vast expanse of smooth brown wood and yellow walls, the occasional portrait hanging from what he managed to be small nails.
In fact, he knew they were. He recognize this place. It was an exact replica of his own home.
It was then that he realized way everything was so out of focus: he was in a fishbowl on the end table in the hallway. Then something caught his eye.
It took him a moment to realize he was staring into the face of a goldfish, hovering outside of his fishbowl, studying him.
"Well you didn't think I helped him for free, did you?"