The Fishers

By Erik Gustafson

Copyright 2011

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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The bright morning sun is blazing through the tall grass where the dew is sparkling like diamonds. A twelve-year-old boy has been trailing behind his father down a narrow trampled path that leads to a wooded area. The trees grow so densely together there, they look like prison bars. The man, tall with eyes as blue as a robin’s egg, is clutching two fishing poles in one hand and a large tackle box, dirty from dried fish scales, in the other.

The boy has been playing with whatever he happens across as they walk: from long blades of seedy grass, to random rocks, and sticks. Both are wearing similar jeans and flannel shirts.

The youngster stoops to pick up a large rock, the weight of his backpack shifts, but he yanks at the strap and the pack stays in place. With a mischievous grin, he hurls the rock into the grass as far as his skinny arm will allow. “What was that?” he shouts, the sound of alarm in his voice. When his father doesn’t react, he adds, “I think someone is following us, Dad!”