Gone Fishin’

By Emily Barnett

Grandpa steered the hover-boat into a valley where salt and magic crackled around us, parting tall grass like waves in a sea. The clouds grew soupier, and I could feel the fish swarming overhead.

Decades ago, when enchantments slipped from the skies, the world had transformed. Suddenly, magic was real. And we could capture it.

Eating sky fish was said to be either delicious, disgusting, or deadly depending on the magic it imparted. Beauty Enhancers tasted like flowers. Zippy Minnows slid down so fast you could choke. The one I wanted—the one I’d been trying to catch all year—was said to taste like tree bark and perspiration.

And today, it would be mine.

When the boat coasted to a stop, Grandpa said, “Get the chum, Jimmy.” He leaned back in his seat with a pained grimace. I frowned. He seemed paler than usual. Thinner too. Just last week he was stacking straw bales with no sign of weariness. I rubbed the morning from my eyes. Maybe his sickly hue came from the yellow clouds undulating above.

We had anchored under the swirling eye of the shoal where catching anything in the chaos was near impossible. But if you did, it was spectacular.

I needed spectacular.

In the past year, every boy in my class had sprung up like weeds in Ma’s garden, while I crept along like stone moss. Reeta Lenore only dated guys like Victor Glim who stood a head taller than me with biceps the size of a snidemouth bass.

But I had other talents. I planned to catch magic, and in turn, catch Reeta’s eye.
Grabbing the bucket, I wrinkled my nose at the locker room-scented remnants sloshing in silvery blood. I recognized a Lightning Lantern—more dangerous than they were worth— some Enhanced Hearing Herrings, and a Thin Bod Cod, of which Ma had eaten enough to nearly waste away. The fish—as we termed them with their tubular bodies, gaping mouths, and willowy tails that danced in a strange, celestial breeze—were quite elusive.

I flung the chunks into the sky, and long, foggy tendrils latched onto them. The sky thundered its thanks. Grandpa cast his line halfheartedly, and I grabbed my pole, letting the gravity of the cloud snap up the hook. Our bright orange bobbers danced in the upside-down sea.

I studied Grandpa from the corner of my eye. His shoulders sagged, and his grimace persisted. Though the clouds had changed to purple, he still looked… depleted.

“Your arthritis?” I asked, hopefully.

His lips pressed tight together.

“Grandpa, what’s wrong?”

“I ‘spose your Ma would tell you eventually.” He sighed, fidgeting with the reel. “My body is failing me, Jimmy.”

My hands grew cold. “It’s the Siphoning, isn’t it?”

His nod was so small I almost missed it. “Doc says I have a few good months left.”

Months. 

Months? 

The word echoed in my hollowed-out chest. My stomach turned sour.

Magic had benefited our world in many ways, except for those alive before the fish had come. The before-people were often plagued by the Siphoning. Magic fed off those who weren’t born into it, causing the weakest of them to waste away.

There was no cure.

Anger flared, and for a moment I felt as large and powerful as Victor Glim. I wanted to upheave the hover, to jump up into the swarming skies and rip the magic apart with my bare hands. I wanted to…

Hot tears dripped down my chin, blotting my cargo shorts. Grandpa was healthy. He wasn’t supposed to succumb to it.

Grandpa leaned forward to pat my arm. His hand looked so small. “You and your Ma will get through this. You’re strong.”

Strong? I snorted.

When dad abandoned us, Grandpa had stepped in. He was our rock. And now? Now he was crumbling.

“Strength comes in all forms, son.” His tone was stern, but his eyes danced, reflecting the bruised skies.

Something tugged on my line, and I looked up. The bobber had disappeared. Blinking away my tears, panic and thrill zipped through my body. I stood, tightening my grip on the pole.

In my anger I might have felt as strong as Victor Glim, but I was still scrawny little Jimmy Duncan trying to reel in a whale of a fish. My face grew hot. My arms felt like rubber.

“I can’t lose it!”

“You can do it. And you will,” Grandpa said in a calm, soothing voice.

Afternoon slipped to evening. Still I held my pole, reeling in my catch inch by inch.

I can do it. And I will.

A fire burned its way through muscle and doubt. Through fear.

With a final yank, the fish broke the surface and dropped into our boat. My knees gave out, and I collapsed beside its golden body. It slapped me with its half-translucent tendrils. I was too tired to care.

“Amazing,” Grandpa breathed. “You landed the Tuna Titan.”

Finally! I could have the strength of twenty Victor Glims.

Reeta would adore me.

I stood and heaved the fish up by its tentacles. Merely touching it washed away my fatigue. To think what it would do if someone ate it. I hesitated.

What could it do? My gaze landed on my grandfather’s frail body, and that fire in me returned. Though part of me—the weak part, I suppose—wanted to keep it for myself, I held it out to him.

Grandpa shook his head. “It’s yours.”

“Not anymore.”

“It might not help me. And… Reeta.” He raised his brows. He’d heard my lovesick whining for months now. “You did this for her.”

Had I? I wasn’t so sure anymore.

“You said I was strong already.” I plopped the wriggling enchantment into his lap.

Grandpa blinked, bewilderment in his misty eyes.

I grinned. “It’s about time I started believing it, too.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Emily resides in Colorado with her husband and two sons dreaming up magical worlds that feel a bit like home. Every Friday she hosts a flash fiction challenge on Instagram to build up other writers. She is querying a YA fantasy novel to agents, and will have two short stories in the upcoming anthology What Darkness Fears (October 2021). She writes poetry and loves The Office, both of which influence her writing quite a bit.

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