TWO STORIES by BETHANY CUTKOMP
Here's the Catch
Despite the age-old saying, there are not plenty of fish in the sea. The fishermen are bountiful, however, and they’re all in love with the sport more than they are the girl.
Cassidy notes that a large percentage of the dating pool features at least one picture of a fish, held dangling by its lips in the grimy hands of an egocentric pretty boy. Those defeated marble eyes strike up a familiar sense of submission, but the lure must outweigh the consequence if they keep biting the hook.
Which is how she finds herself in the company of Wes, 29, who asks to hook up, pun intended. It’s fine. She’ll let that slide. Cassidy tests the water with a few late-night Facetime calls and, deciding this boy is more than half-decent, agrees to meet him at his property’s pond.
Hooking up, in Wes’s terms, means fishing. Go figure.
Although she can’t stand handling those scaly bodies thrashing for their lives, Wes’s gentle understanding tames a deep-rooted sense of judgment within Cassidy’s nerves.
Maybe it's the early morning sun warming her to her core. Maybe it’s the water’s glitter, or how when the cattails flex in the breeze it looks like they’re breathing. Maybe it’s the way Wes’s gray cotton shirt lifts, exposing the small of his back every time he casts his line.
But Cassidy is finally starting to get it. Enjoy it, even, while engaging in playful banter.
“That hat is atrocious,” Wes comments with a smirk.
Cassidy removes her baseball cap, admiring its “FISH WANT ME, WOMEN FEAR ME” lettering. She sets it on the tackle box to prevent a goofy sunburn on the lower half of her face.
“Thanks. Embroidered it myself.”
“It should say ME FEAR FISH, ya wuss.” Wes dangles a writhing crappie over her head. When its tail smacks her cheek, his eyes soften. “Hey, I think I’ve reeled in a keeper.”
He isn’t referring to the fish. As he kisses her, Cassidy’s heart twitches like the rod in her grip.
***
One by one, Wes hangs their catches on his clothesline. Clamps each creature by the lips to dangle beside his drying laundry. Cassidy stands aside, mystified.
“I’ve never seen that done before,” she admits.
Her own lips still tingle from mingling with his. Although her date’s unorthodox method of cleanup perplexes her, Cassidy resists the urge to pull him aside and melt into his arms.
With his back to her, Wes shrugs. “I kind of had to get creative with storage.”
“We must be having quite the seafood spread.”
“Nah,” he scoffs. “I don’t do all that gutting crap. How does ordering pizza sound?”
A guarded shift in Wes’s tone makes Cassidy’s gut twinge. An answer she doesn’t register leaks out of her.
Rubbing the back of her neck, Wes leads her to his back porch and unlocks the door. A putrid stench of decay puffs out of the house and assaults Cassidy’s nostrils. She stumbles into Wes’s chest and feels him chuckle.
“Sorry about the mess,” he says, pushing ahead. “Make yourself at home.”
Mess is a generous word for the disaster festering within his house. Crammed into every unconventional crevice are fish. Dead fish. Piled up in the sink. Draping out of the toaster slots. Stuffed into empty pitchers and vases. The odor alone suggests that this collection isn’t a new hobby of his.
“Don’t you ever…toss back your catches?” Cassidy stammers.
Wes throws a funny look over his shoulder. “What? No, they’re mine—I caught them.”
That rigid defensiveness dilutes his attractiveness. Cassidy’s gaze flits from corner to corner. Everywhere she looks, fish corpses. Smashed behind glass frames. Sprawling among balled-up socks. Collecting flies that burrow into tender flesh. Those glassy eyes and parted lips are silent cries of desperation frozen for eternity.
“Will you excuse me for a minute?” Cassidy whispers, fingers splayed over her mouth.
Her date flops onto his futon. “Holler if you need anything. I’ll put in the pizza order.”
Disappearing around the corner, Cassidy ducks into the bathroom and gags. The cotton-scented air freshener makes no difference. She’s surrounded. Bones tucked away in the medicine cabinets. Fresher carcasses propped against his 3-in-1 cleanser. Floating in the… never mind. Best not to lift the lid.
For the sake of making noise, Cassidy runs the faucet and dials her sister.
Please pick up. I need out of here ASAP.
The call goes straight to voicemail. No service. A claustrophobic sensation itches across her face and limbs as if she’s constricted within a net.
Struggling to keep her voice even, she shouts, “Hey Wes? Where should I wash my hands?”
No answer. There is a distant grating sound. Furniture against wood.
“Wes?”
Cassidy tries the door. The knob turns, but it only allows an inch of give before resisting against something large propped on the other side. The futon? A dresser?
“What the—hey! What’s going on?”
Panic surges through her ears like radio static. She pounds and kicks, throwing all of her weight against the door with no give. Despair claws up her throat, escaping as a hollow sob.
The opening notes to “Take Me to the River” startles her to silence. Mounted above the toilet, a Big Mouth Billy Bass peels away from the plaque and flaps its lips open and shut.
“You’re hooked! You’re hooked! You’re hooked!” it chants over the music.
Cassidy flattens herself against the wall and holds her breath. The animatronic prop straightens to its natural state and then folds out to face her once more.
“He won’t let you go.” There is sentience behind its mechanical drone of a voice. “Hurry—before he reels you in for good.”
Say less.
Climbing the toilet, Cassidy forces the window open. Removes the screen. Wriggles through the small opening. Loses her hat. Flops out onto the grass. She gasps a mouthful of pollen-laced air and stumbles into a run, remembering that her legs aren’t fins. That her lungs aren’t gills.
Inside-Out Pockets Purge a Universe
I’m wrestling with a rusted parking meter when a stranger asks me for money. Truth is, I’m all out. He asks how—my pockets are bulging with the stuff. Honest to God, I’m not fooling him. That meter ate the last of my quarters. The man jabs me in the chest. Shoves me against my bumper. Here, want to see what’s really in these pockets? I let the fabric regurgitate its contents onto the pavement: candy wrappers / loose screws / shoelaces / sample spoons / fishing hooks / missing links / blades of grass / soda can tabs / acorn caps / expectations / pencil shavings / eggshells / press-on nails / mystery crumbs / crustacean claws / wads of gum / daydreams / doll eyes / baby teeth / insect wings / toy cars / white lies / broken chalk / awkward silence / tubes of paint / faded polaroids / uninvited gazes. All the same, really. Fragments once tied to something much larger than themselves. The man stumbles back, asking what the hell I think I’m doing. Truth is, he won’t understand. I don’t spare him the chance.
Bethany Cutkomp is a writer from St. Louis, Missouri. One day, she hopes to write YA novels and befriend the opossums under her porch. Her work appears or will appear in Mag 20/20, Alternative Milk, Hearth & Coffin, JAKE, Heimat Review, Exposed Bone, Wireworm Magazine, and more. Find her on social media at @bdcutkomp.