This is “Fish On”, a short story I wrote for Quick Fictions, a smartphone app that publishes short, short stories.  The stories are all under 300 words and there are about 150 of them on the app at the moment. I like reading them on the bus.

“Fish On”

We’d been fishing a few hours, catching nothing, when Jim hooked and landed the bass. We never minded not catching anything, because it wasn’t about the fish. We’d talk about music while we cast into the current and reeled in the fishless spinners, glimmering as they surfaced. We agreed on songs, but not on what made them: I liked guitarists, and Jim was all about drummers. With Van Halen, I’d back Eddie, but Jim would just shake his head: Eddie would be nothing without Alex holding the rhythm down. Or Red Hot Chili Peppers: I’d say they were only good with John Frusciante; Jim’d defend rock-solid Chad Smith. Of course we were both right, and the arguing was fun, especially when—like most of the time—we didn’t catch a single thing.

The only band we agreed on was Primus, so when Jim yelled, “Fish on!” I thought he meant the song. Jim’s rod bent, the top eyelet pointing fiercely down. He actually had a fish on.

“Heavy,” he muttered and cranked a couple turns on the reel. “Like dead weight.”

“Could be a rock bass,” I said. They’re like that. Just hanging weight, no fight, not like a smallmouth, which kicks and yanks all the way.

The headstock emerged first. We saw the tuning heads, then the neck, all four strings attached. The body emerged, black and gleaming, mother-of-pearl pickguard. We’d both gone silent by now. Jim dragged the bass onto shore and picked it up. He plucked a string, and then another. He looked at me and grinned. “Fish on!”

These days I fish alone, and Jim stays home and practices. He doesn’t talk about the drums anymore. The melody, he insists, is always in the bassline.