The sun crouched on the horizon casting red light on sparse clouds. A small fishing boat rocked, its hull gently brushed by the current flowing past. On deck, an older man ran a hand through his thick beard, then over his bald, sunburned head. Beside him, a boy tied a rope off on a cleat.
“Can we go out in the rowboat, Grandpa, I wanna try night fishing,” the boy looked up expectantly.
“Go get the rods,” the old man said.
“I already put everything in the rowboat,” the boy was already over the side, climbing the ladder to the small, white rowboat.
The sun had set and the old man and the boy sat in their rowboat. Silence hung in the darkness, like a presence accompanying them. Something thudded against the bottom of the boat. The boy started.
“Is that Dagon, Grandpa? Is he going to drag us out to sea?” the boy’s voice quivered.
“No, that was just a story, there’s no such…” he cut himself off as something reached out of the water, webbed fingers searching.
When the sun rose, an empty rowboat rocked in the water, still anchored. A short distance away, a small fishing boat floated, lifeless as the grave.
Written as part of Sunday Photo Fiction.
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