| Supernatural Flash Fiction posted September 15, 2021 |
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a short ghost story
Gramps
by RodG
Gramps and the old dog follow me again early this morning. All the way to the big round rock near the dock.
Feeling sticky already, I tear off my shirt. Gramps seems comfortable in his flannel shirt, but does pull down his hat brim.
"Petey," he says in a raspy whisper, "you got those raggedy bangs, so Old Sol don't pick on you. Chief there just shuts his eyes, but he didn't come to catch them fish, did he?"
I just nod. No need to talk since Gramps now hears my thoughts.
I squat Indian-style, staring at Gramps' tackle box. He sits on the hump of the rock behind me while Chief reclines in the small space between the box and my creel.
"Open it, Petey."
I do.
"Which of them lures you gonna use first?"
I finger through the upper tray. When I don't find what I am looking for, I remove it and rummage around the bottom.
"You looking for that one?" Gramps points at a double-tailed spinner still in its sealed plastic case, my gift to him last Christmas.
"Ye--s . . ."
"Never got to use it . . . as you can tell. Put her on that line of yours."
I shake my head vigorously. . . and the tears come at last.
"Ah, Petey, don't . . . tears won't bring me back."
But has Gramps really left? I feel his cold breath on the back of my neck.
I rub the plastic case between my finger and thumb. "This is yours, Gramps. You . . ." Hot tears stream down my cheeks.
"Nah. No more. That box and all them lures are yours now. Use that new one and let's see what we can catch."
. . . we can catch.
It has always been that way between us when we fish. No matter who catches the fish, it is ours because "we eat 'em."
I unwrap the lure and quickly tie it to my line.
I feel Gramps' cold wrist on mine, our arms whipping the pole back . . . then forward.
Minutes later I pull in a big one.
"Ah, Petey," he yelps. "We done good!"
Supernatural Story writing prompt entry
Gramps and the old dog follow me again early this morning. All the way to the big round rock near the dock.
Feeling sticky already, I tear off my shirt. Gramps seems comfortable in his flannel shirt, but does pull down his hat brim.
"Petey," he says in a raspy whisper, "you got those raggedy bangs, so Old Sol don't pick on you. Chief there just shuts his eyes, but he didn't come to catch them fish, did he?"
I just nod. No need to talk since Gramps now hears my thoughts.
I squat Indian-style, staring at Gramps' tackle box. He sits on the hump of the rock behind me while Chief reclines in the small space between the box and my creel.
"Open it, Petey."
I do.
"Which of them lures you gonna use first?"
I finger through the upper tray. When I don't find what I am looking for, I remove it and rummage around the bottom.
"You looking for that one?" Gramps points at a double-tailed spinner still in its sealed plastic case, my gift to him last Christmas.
"Ye--s . . ."
"Never got to use it . . . as you can tell. Put her on that line of yours."
I shake my head vigorously. . . and the tears come at last.
"Ah, Petey, don't . . . tears won't bring me back."
But has Gramps really left? I feel his cold breath on the back of my neck.
I rub the plastic case between my finger and thumb. "This is yours, Gramps. You . . ." Hot tears stream down my cheeks.
"Nah. No more. That box and all them lures are yours now. Use that new one and let's see what we can catch."
. . . we can catch.
It has always been that way between us when we fish. No matter who catches the fish, it is ours because "we eat 'em."
I unwrap the lure and quickly tie it to my line.
I feel Gramps' cold wrist on mine, our arms whipping the pole back . . . then forward.
Minutes later I pull in a big one.
"Ah, Petey," he yelps. "We done good!"
Feeling sticky already, I tear off my shirt. Gramps seems comfortable in his flannel shirt, but does pull down his hat brim.
"Petey," he says in a raspy whisper, "you got those raggedy bangs, so Old Sol don't pick on you. Chief there just shuts his eyes, but he didn't come to catch them fish, did he?"
I just nod. No need to talk since Gramps now hears my thoughts.
I squat Indian-style, staring at Gramps' tackle box. He sits on the hump of the rock behind me while Chief reclines in the small space between the box and my creel.
"Open it, Petey."
I do.
"Which of them lures you gonna use first?"
I finger through the upper tray. When I don't find what I am looking for, I remove it and rummage around the bottom.
"You looking for that one?" Gramps points at a double-tailed spinner still in its sealed plastic case, my gift to him last Christmas.
"Ye--s . . ."
"Never got to use it . . . as you can tell. Put her on that line of yours."
I shake my head vigorously. . . and the tears come at last.
"Ah, Petey, don't . . . tears won't bring me back."
But has Gramps really left? I feel his cold breath on the back of my neck.
I rub the plastic case between my finger and thumb. "This is yours, Gramps. You . . ." Hot tears stream down my cheeks.
"Nah. No more. That box and all them lures are yours now. Use that new one and let's see what we can catch."
. . . we can catch.
It has always been that way between us when we fish. No matter who catches the fish, it is ours because "we eat 'em."
I unwrap the lure and quickly tie it to my line.
I feel Gramps' cold wrist on mine, our arms whipping the pole back . . . then forward.
Minutes later I pull in a big one.
"Ah, Petey," he yelps. "We done good!"
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Writing Prompt Read All Rules Write a fictional supernatural story The minimum word length is 300 words with a maximum length of 350 words. I picture may be included that has no animation, music, or words on it. Use 1 color font and 1 color background. Author notes may include 2 videos [music in videos allowed ]. A dedication line may be included which doesn't count in total word length. |
 Recognized |
INHERITANCE painted by James Lumbers, courtesy of Google images.
WORD COUNT: 349 Apple Pages
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