There was once an old man and a fish. Every humdrum weekend the old man went to the sun-drenched lake and caught the fish. One cloud-swimming Saturday the fish asked, "Why, old man? Why this routine? We share the worms, you snare me on your line only to let me go. What's up with that?" The old man extracted his hook from the fish's cheek and dropped him back to the water. He watched the ripples fade against the canoe. And the old man said nothing because old men can't talk. Can they?
I've mentioned before that when I read some authors stories pop into my head. While reading Neil Gaiman tonight at the mechanic's garage the line, "an old man and a fish" jumped into my head. As as I wrote it down the rest of the story just flowed out. I had no idea what was waiting behind that fish. I never really know until I start writing. This is why you should write down ideas. I think this is my first competent flash story. Thanks, Neil.
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