Writing Prompt

He knew they called him The Fishmonger. Never to his face, he smiled, proud at the reputation he’d acquired over the years of building his business. Señor was all the few people who spoke to him directly would dare to say. Except his mother, god rest her soul. Even until her final days, she’d called him Miguel, after his paternal grandfather. In truth, he had been a fisherman, following in the footsteps of the generations of his family before him. Down here on the edge of the Atlantic it was easy to make a living from fishing the dark waters off the dilapidated docks. The hardest part was avoiding the international ships making their way into the huge port further down the coast.

He’d always lived in Buenaventura, having been born and raised in the town. Even as a child, his unusually large size had permitted him a special status as someone clearly to be avoided, especially in fights amongst the other children in the barrio. Paired with his notorious anger, he had managed to live a long life; longer than most expected to last in this part of Columbia. At six foot five and four-hundred twenty pounds, he was an intimidating figure to all who saw him on the rare occasions he came into town now. The rubber apron he donned struggled to hold his enormous frame, the belt stretched beneath his bloated stomach.

He drew a last pull on his cigarette, flicking it into the thick, black waters shifting below his feet, before turning to push open the familiar heavy metal door behind him with his large shoulder. The incessant hum of the mosquitoes in the thick night air now masked by the sound of the radio, as a invisible futbol commentator excitedly relayed the details of the national derby match to all who would listen. As the door creaked shut behind, he reached out a hand and turned the radio louder, knowing the game would help to hide the surgical whine of the electric bone saw.

“Selling cockles and mussels, alive alive oh,” she sang to herself as she went to start her day. She ran an oyster farm, and did like to consider herself a fishmonger. She liked to imagine it was part of her Irish roots.

She arrived at the docks, loaded her gear onto the boat, and thought about her day. She didn’t own much of an oyster farm, but it was enough to keep her busy, and she collected environmental data on the waters as well.

Out on the waters she collected herself, anchored, and started hauling in her harvest. One oyster stood out from the rest. It was emerald green! Highly unusual, she wondered it it was due to some quick in the environment. Setting her regular catch in the tank, she brought this odd bivalve to bucket to examine it closer.

She was quite shocked when it started to speak! At least, she thought it was saying words, but not of a language she knew. The oyster was the silent, as if observing her.

“Oh, my apologizes, you haven’t evolved to that language yet,” she distinctly heard in English. With a slightly Scottish accent.

“Buuuuhhh..” was her reply.

“Yes, I can imagine this is quite the shock to you. I am from another dimension, and foolishly chose this form. I lament that I cannot move, not change to my regular form. Thank you for pulling me up.”

“Another dimension? And you choose an oyster?” She recovered her speech, and marveled at the oddness of chatting with a trans dimensional Scottish bivalve. Briefly she wonder how it tasted, but quickly pushed those thoughts aside.

“Yes, I’m not sure what I was thinking. Failed to do research, and the shell is quite lovely. But that doesn’t matter now. I am here to grant you three wishes!”

“Really?!”

“No, of course not. I’m not a genie. But you may be able to help me out. Is there a particle accelerator nearby?”

“Um, no. Nearest is in Switzerland. Quite far for here.” She was still trying to come to grips with what was happening.

“Pity. I do like those. Well, I can make due with a beer, twine, and a titanium spork.”

Having those items, she hit them for the oyster. Not knowing what else to do, she poured the beer in the bucket, and dropped the twine and spork in.

This seemed to please the being. Somehow, and it happened very fast, the being was able to wrap the twine around the spork. There was a great flash of light, and the oyster was gone.

She sat down. What had happened? Had it happened? Had she drank seawater? She opened a seemingly regular oyster, pondered it for a second, and ate it.

There was once a Chinese fishmonger store in the middle of town in a swap meet. that claimed they were vegan. “ we have vegan fish” they said. No one believed them. “ how can you be vegan? You are selling fish” People exclaimed. “ oh they are vegan alright,” the store employee said “ they are today’s catch.....”

When Sandy met the fishmonger she had long given up on humanity. She lived in cottage in the highlands, writing stories and painting the mountains and trees and squirrels. When she needed anything she went on an hour walk to a little village by the nice loch. The village has a charming café, she thought sometimes. But that day she had decided to get lost, for it was truly a fine day to do just that. The wind blowing in her silvered hair, Sandy trudged into Later she was wandering around a sweet village that she didn’t know the name of. The water beside the houses was salt water, she was told, so the fish trade wasn’t half bad. Sandy dropped onto a picnic-blanket cloaked rock which had a beautiful view of almost everything, then tucked into her cucumber and humus sandwiches. The blanket she sat on used to have an intricate pattern sewn into it but years of paint splattered the earthy colours of her seat. Reaching into her age-old backpack, she fished out a sketchbook of beautiful canvas paper and some bright paints. She set them out in front of her, and spent seconds adjusting the position of her equipment. “Perfect!” she muttered to her self. Over the fifty years Sandy had spent with minimal human contact, she had unknowingly become a very softly spoken person with hearing good for birdie gossip and branch creaks. “Miserable weather we’re having, eh?” said a gruff voice that startled her with a short bark of laughter. She hurriedly looked around in anger and then fright for whoever had disturbed her content. Her eyes fell on a stocky man that resembled either a bear or a sea lion and was clothed in a random amount of colour. His beard was brown stroked with age and his ears were covered by a woollen hat dirtied by moths, mud and salt water. He stood on a fishing boat, holding a bluish net cloaked in spinach-like seaweed. Sandy didn’t speak and ate her sandwich, eyes slightly wide at the disturbance. He snorted. “Not much of a talker lass?” “I’m older than you.” Sandy replied, shocked at her ability to speak to a stranger. “You don’t look it, lass. What, forty years, give or take?” “Sixty” said Sandy sadly, twirling her paintbrush. “Fifty-eight,” he exchanged. Sandy grunted, too quiet to hear. She soaked the brush hairs into some yellow paint and began to stroke the paper. “What’re you doin, lass?” asked he after a short moment. “Being quiet.” Sandy half whispered. “Eh?” “Quiet.” Sandy heard the man laugh then she didn’t hear him. She looked up to see if he had abandoned her and saw him working at his fishing instead.

——

Sandy looked fondly at the finished painting in the frame and then smiled at the wedding picture next to it. They married years after their meeting and it was a happy wedding. Sandy was no longer alone with the birds.

Reid Stillwater had lived in the Wilds all his life, as his father had before him and his father’s father had before that. The village in which they lived had been named Stillwater Crossing, for the acts of heroism his family had shown in their lifetimes. However, Reid was nearly seventy years old and hadn’t done a single heroic thing in his entire life, and he was feeling especially crummy now.

Robgoblins, tiny, two-foot tall green imps with pointy ears, tattered clothes, and a tendency to thieve and destroy, had been disturbing the natural life on the outskirts of Stillwater Crossing for weeks. Reid had woken up to Mrs. Melson - the retired teacher, so old, no one knew her first name because she had been Mrs. Melson in class, even to Reid - screaming at the top of her lungs about the horse head in her kitchen. She wasn’t exaggerating; Stillwater was known for the wild horse herds that lived in the hills east of it, and somehow they had ended up here, breaking windows and eating crops. After a little digging around, Reid discovered that the horses had all been scared away by robgoblins in the hills.

The horses were a minor disturbance, but what really set the village off was when robgoblins began hurling dynamite into the river. The only fish coming with the current were dead fish; the rest had been frightened away. When Reid found this out, his blood boiled. Fishing not ran only in his blood, but it was the village’s largest export and kept it alive.

Within a few weeks, it was evident that without their fish, not only would Stillwater starve, it would fall into an economic crisis and soon cease to exist.

Reid Stillwater was no negotiator, but he made the hike up the hills outside the village to speak to the robgoblins, to try and work something out. But the selfish little imps refused to listen, didn’t care to negotiate or even know how to care about the well-being of others.

Furious, Reid returned to his home and stewed a while longer, until an idea struck him. He sat at the kitchen table, drawing out parchment and ink, and scribbled furiously for several minutes.

The letter was addressed to the Captain of the Royal Guard:

“...you have always been our military and our police. You can right the wrongs in Sacred Grove, save a village which will go under if things are not corrected. If you can spare a few of your soldiers, the people of Stillwater Crossing will be in your debt.”

The next few days inched by, and Reid watched many a person pack up their meager things and leave. His hopes dimmed, until the Royal Guard crossed the river from the eastern hills and announced that they were safe now.

Even the Captain of the Royal Guard himself understood the importance of the meek fishermen’s village, and even he would send his best to protect it.

In a small house lived a boy named Troy. He was only 8 years old and he was very forgetful. He lived with his mom,dad and a loving small sister. One day Troy’s mom told him to get half a Kg of fish from the new fish shop that had opened. The fish shops name was Marine House. It also sold sea food. It was a long walk from his house but he thought it would give him some exercise and he could get himself a treat. he told his mom ‘okay’ and he put on his shoes took the money and went. On the way he heard some people fighting over what curtains they should put in the living room. Troy decided to help them out. After he was done he went home and his mom asked him ‘where’s is the fish’ he said ‘did you tell me to get fish’? His mom told him again what he had to get and he went again when he was going there he heard some children fighting on wheaten they should play hide and seek or tag. He again decided to help them and after he was done he went to the shop. When the fishmonger asked him what he wanted he forgot. So he went back home and his mom asked him ‘where’s the fish’ He suddenly remembered what he had to get and went back to the shop but in the way he heard some teenagers fighting over which marvel character was better so he again decided to help them. It was getting late so he went back home. This time he did not have the fish and his mother was very angry she said ‘can’t you get it right you have to get fish, now go get it and do not come back until you have it’. This time Troy took it with him written on the paper when he reached the shop the fishmonger said ‘do you know what you want now’? He said yes and put his hand in the pocket but he had lost the paper and he remembered what his mom had said do not come back until you get the ...... he couldn’t remember after that so he went searching for the paper and when he found it he was very happy and went to the shop and gave the appertains the fishmonger and he replied ‘sorry we are currently out of fish and we are closing. When he went back home he told his mom what the fishmonger had told him. That day the whole family had to eat the food that was left over from last night. Never after that day Troy’s mom told him to get anything. He learnt his lesson. But now he never had to go and get something.