It was one of those rules. Don't go into the water 30 minutes after eating. Always check your Halloween candy. Don't eat raw cookie dough. Don't disturb the water of Midrash Lake.
Unfortunately, I rather liked the taste of cookie dough. And fish. And so I found myself on the shore, fishing rod in hand, staring out at the dark water. I cast my line, the ripple of the bobber spread across the still lake. It was a cool night, a light breeze ruffling my hair. My pole pulled lightly. The village clock chimed the witching hour as the fish took the bait. I let out some line, letting the hook set, then started to reel him in. The fish was strong, my rod nearly pulling out of my grip. I braced my legs, feet digging into the sand, and struggled against whatever monster of a fish was on the line. Things were going well, I thought, until I was spitting up sand, then sputtering in the water.
By the time I had the presence of mind to let go of the rod, I couldn't touch the bottom of the lake. I heard a loud splash behind me, waves washing into my back. I just had enough time to twist around to see the large, gaping maw, hundreds of fishhooks embedded in its lips, before things went dark.
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WritOber 2022
Short StoryA few short autumn writing exercises for the month of October.
