The Fisherman by Matt Leavitt Part 1
The Fisherman by Matt Leavitt is the first short story included in the “Mad Men” anthology. Mad Men is a collection of three disturbing horror shorts from writers from the Midwest, specifically, Illinois. The themes explored in this collection range from man versus self, man versus man, and man versus creature.
We will be releasing the full short story in three parts. If you enjoy it and want to support the author or read the full anthology, check it out at Barnes and Noble.
The Fisherman by Matt Leavitt Part 1The boat cut a swath into the sand like a surgeon’s blade. Upside down, its nose trailed into the thick bounty of checkered grains. Black, grey, beige, probably different beaches all their own at one time, now a Frankenstein of sand mirroring a grey sky of pastels. The grey was bright. The grey was difficult to look at, as if the clouds did not hide the sun, but magnified its fire across the earth. The fisherman clenched his hairy knuckles into the small ledge of the boat and dragged it backward, his body sweating, his muscles aching underneath the denim.
Underneath the boat, an oar clung to the underside like a crustacean. It was a small canoe, it could fit one man, perhaps two if there was no choice. His boy had joined him at times, but going out into the water was serious, almost solemn. The boy’s cries were a distraction and besides, it seemed the lad would rather stay inside the warmth. Perhaps when he was older.
There was a deafening silence on the shore. The scraping of the boat’s beak was barely audible, it silently dug into the shore without a noise. The water crashed against the beach in lame, off-beat strides. When it hit, you could taste the salt in the air. Off in the distance, was the sound of wind chimes. There were some hanging from his home, not far in the distance. As he got closer to the waters, this instrument slowly faded into obscurity. The only noise one would hear is the spitting of clams, a little clap that came intermittently. Razor clams, buried underneath the surface, popping their limbs out to clap, before suddenly disappearing into the earth.
The shore was quite silent. The noise that hung over the beach was more of a lack of noise than anything, a severe droning that seemed to emanate from the clouds. The sound one might hear looking down into a manhole or gazing into a tunnel. It is a vacancy of sound, the reaching of one’s ears to work with something, instead of grasping at themselves. Humans are like little antennae, groping to make contact with something. When one reaches out into the otherness of the world, blindly, and finds nothing, a certain panic sets forth. There is a frantic drumming that bubbles up. Man must feel another, a sound, a warmth, a knowing. Without this knowing, this reassurance, man begins to warp. This droning was not a sound. It was the echo back of the antennae, something the mind must make for the ear, lest the mind fall apart completely.
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Processing… Success! You're on the list. Whoops! There was an error and we couldn't process your subscription. Please reload the page and try again.The man dropped the raft and stretched his aching limbs. He removed the oar, pushed the boat into the water, walked up to his knee, and climbed in. His eyes squinted on the horizon, and the clouds seemed to descend onto the waters like a tree growing down from the ceiling. He pierced the cold waters with his oar and the blackness seemed to consume it. When the oar resurfaced it looked submerged in oil, its dry wood being cleansed with cold waters.
If you asked if it was raining or not, yes or no would both suffice. The downpour seemed to fly around, light and electric, like fairy kisses. He felt nothing on his skin but the hairs standing at attention in the cold. Even the face of the water showed nothing, the drops to light to disturb the curtain. It was as if tiny atoms were exploding in the air, their minuscule explosions leaving a momentary zap in the air barely detectable by the skin. This was good rain to fish. A man would feel nothing, but the drops were sure to echo far past the curtains of the water face. A body of water such as this could be undisturbed for weeks, even months, but a rain like this would stir the depths and bring movement closer to the surface.
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The man craned his neck over the edge and looked into the water. The water was dark, almost black in the daylight, murky with the ashen sand. He looked up into the bright grey sky, produced his net, and flung it into the water. The boat teetered back and forth in the swaying of the waters. He was out far enough now.
The cold win caused the man’s toes to curl in his boots and his fingers to pull down at the cuffs of his flannel. He scanned the bright grey and swallowed, his wet palate making a sound much like the clams back on shore. Here, on the water, it was much more deafening, the droning unaccompanied by any clams or waves. The boat continued its wavering, the water licking at the sides like amorphous dogs.
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The boat stirs.
The man looks about the boat, searching for shadows beneath the waterline. The water is too dark to see beneath the curtain, something would need to break through.
He feels the anchor of the net and gives it a tug.
Nothing.
His heart has busied a bit now, the stirring of the boat insists that movement is just below. The net will snag something soon.
Keeping his hand on the edge of the net, he watches the waterline. He feels uneasy with the blackness of the water. The coverage of the thick clouds has stopped any light from penetrating the water. An old fear pops up, a fear of water, something shed in boyhood, starts poking at his mind. Perhaps, not a fear of water, a fear of the deep.
The man sits back in the boat and rolls to his side, clutching the end of the net. He would have to wait. He rolls his tongue against the front of his teeth, tasting salt and acrid breath. Sweat crawled down his face like little crystal snails.
Suddenly, the boat jerks.
The man sits up in the boat and instantly clutches the knotted end of the net. His heart was in the bowl of his throat. Manically, he shakes at the net, attempting to feel the weight of his catch. The fish seemed to be swimming in circles, not swimming against the net, causing the boat to turn about like a compass on the water. He frantically digs his boots into the first step for leverage and peers over the edge. Nothing was visible. He reaches over farther down onto the net and braces for leverage. The boat rocks more aggressively and he doesn’t want to turn over. It’s best not to fight too much in a boat this size.
If you are enjoying “The Fisherman,” visit our blog at The Ritual for related flash fiction.
He watches as the neck of the net makes small circles in the water, as if being stirred. Whatever is below him was making circles, not swimming away.
Confused, the man carefully leans over the edge of the peering into the black waters. He turns his body to the side of the canoe and tugs at the net. He fears sitting this way may imbalance the small boat, but something strange happens instead. Instead of tugging for its life against the net, the fish begins to swim towards the boat. He pulls at the net at first, but slack comes into the boat at alarming speeds. He doesn’t have to pull; the net is going limp. He realizes at once; it was swimming towards him.
The man watches the water, waiting. The net has completely stopped moving. In the shifting darkness of the water the man can only make out a warped reflection staring back at him. He reaches for the top of the net to make sure it hasn’t gotten free. He can feel the weight beneath him, just floating there. Unnerved and sensing that he is being watched, the man glances back to the shoreline. It seems farther than he remembered, the lateral dragging of the boat must have carried him farther out.
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