The fog swirls. Shadows coalesce into shapes.
A sailboat appears.
Two grey men lower a grey sail, then silently cast a net over glass-like water. It’s a charcoal sketch of an autumn lake scene, awaiting the colour of the vibrant oils.
Standing to take a photo, my rocking boat sends ripples towards the dhow as it retreats behind the cloud curtain.
I row to shore with a sense of trepidation. I’m drawn like a moth to the amber glow of a lakeside pub. A fire crackles. The barman pulls my pint.
‘Fishing, you say?’
‘From an old sailboat.’
‘Must be tourists.’
‘They looked professional. Used a net.’
‘Can’t be.’ He holds my gaze. ‘No-one has fished these waters for a hundred years.’
I swipe photos on my phone. But all I see is an empty mist-shrouded lake.
Then I remember. The sailboat left no wake. The net rippled only time.
PJ is a conservation biologist and environmental consultant who writes short stories when he can. His work has appeared in publications such as 101 Words, Flash Fiction Magazine, Flash Frontier, FlashBack Fiction, Friday Flash Fiction, Retreat West, Spillwords, Splonk, The Fiction Pool, Writing Magazine and several anthologies. Follow him @Tweeting_Writer.
This story was shortlisted in the September 24 Monthly Micro Competition.