The Fish by Anne Tolar

Fish darted along the bottom of the small back water pool of the river... creek ... stream... whatever you called it. The man with blond hair and surprisingly sharp, smiling, green eyes felt like a kid. The morning had been a scorcher for Chris Larabee; the afternoon promised more of the same... toil and sweat as he mended the broken fence and started the small tack shed. But here in the hottest part of the day, all alone and happy to be so, he had declared a rest for his soul. This was his home, a little one room cabin on rolling land with a nice shaded river... creek... it wasn't really big enough to be a river, but it was big enough for a nice swim, or bath, and there were plenty of fish.

Spurs, boots, pants, shirt... everything else including his .44... lay thrown across and under bushes a few yards away at river's edge... cleaned and drying as he played where no one would see... except the fish. His hardened body, totally well, amazingly trim, glistened as now strong arms and legs pulled him into the deeper water at mid stream. He sighed as the cool water glided over muscle and sinew, rinsing the sweat from him. He shocked himself at how much he laughed, how much he played in the water. Through his entire life, that had been one constant... his love for moving water and a chance to simply be, and enjoy, and smile... to be free of trouble. Rivers and creeks and streams always made him happy. He dove to the bottom of the pool, rising like something mythical, laughing only for his own delight.

And he loved it when the water provided fish. He stood there in the deeper water, watching for the trout that had jumped a minute before, so close he almost touched it. He was completely still... watching for the swirl of water, or the jump that would let him know where the fish had gone. The lone word in his mind came again. LUNCH!

It jumped... wildly abandoned... seemingly as free and happy as Chris had been a few minutes before. Sailing from the water, it turned to the side and sailed back into the depths. Once it jumped, then twice, and then a third time where its aim was less that perfect... straight into Larabee's smooth muscular chest. Chris grabbed it... and held its wiggling mass in his hand, watching it struggle to be gone.

Chris didn't know why it bothered him... this wiggling thing that was bound for a skillet inside. Its gills struggled to find water and air. It writhed, setting the mass of irridescent scales shimmering. Its body was sleek and it was alive and fighting to be gone. It just wanted to live, and swim, and play in the pool of clear, sparkling, water. It just wanted to be undisturbed, happy... ..home.

It drew still in his hand, its eyes seeming to acknowledge its fate. The gills began to still.

"Shoot. Guess there's always jerky." Chris opened his hand and let the fish go free.

THE END