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Description

Hey Ho, Little Fishes

Lightning flashed in the distance, accompanied by a rumble of threatening thunder.
Peter didn’t notice.
The small boy dragged his feet in the wet sand, enjoying the feel between his toes, sometimes looking back to see the trail he had dug into the shore’s edge where the waves washed up and down. He came here often, practically every day, his little plastic bucket in hand and his blue swim trunks on. Mom always told Genevieve and George to look after him, but he always ended up here anyway after they would tell him to go away.
It was okay. He liked the beach.
Here, he could fill his little bucket up with shells and plastic forks and old balloons and Krabby shells that washed up on the shore. He never went near the tourists sunbathing further up the coast, watching them from afar, smelling the sunscreen and wide eyed at the kites they loved to fly, the little dogs they would let chase the birds.
Today there were no tourists. It was a very empty beach. Some droplets of rain hit Peter in the face, making him blink, but he simply stood there, swaying slightly in the strong winds. The storm was picking up, but he still stayed there on the beach, watching the Wingulls scream at each other. Not many were up and flying in these winds, most staying huddled on the sand, staring out to sea like Peter himself often did. A few skittered forward, away from Peter as he trudged up the shoreline. When he got too close to a few, they took off, broad wings sweeping the stormy skies effortlessly, like they were being lifted by an unseen divine force.
Peter watched them soar, feeling a strange lump in his six year old chest. They were the lucky ones. He lifted his arms, bucket in hand, trying to imitate their flying motions. It only made him sadder he couldn’t follow, so he dropped his arms to the side, shoulders drooping.
He didn’t have a totem yet, though Mom had commented the other day his hair was looking lighter in color, though he had spent less time in the sun, and his back had been feeling uncomfortable and itchy lately.
But it could just be some unfortunate skin condition he was developing too. Given family history with medicine, it was more likely.
Mom had been getting sicker. The other day she had been talking over the phone to the man they were trying to sell the fishing boat to. Deep into conversation, she suddenly dropped the phone, holding her head in pain as George ran to steady her. She could barely get up, she looked so dizzy and painful, ordering George around as much as she could. Peter had just frozen where he was, paralyzed by fear, as the two little ones holed up in the kitchen, trying to make themselves some breakfast. He could hear the oatmeal being poured out onto the floor as James accidentally spilled it and the tinny voice of the man shouting on the other end of the phone, but he couldn’t move, watching George buckle under the weight of his mother leaning on him. Gen wasn’t around, as usual, taking on all the lifeguard lessons and babysitting jobs she could find, filling up her time with work like Dad did.
Peter wasn’t sure if he wanted Dad home. He was a grown up, but he seemed less capable of helping Mom than the kids did. It wasn’t a thought in so many words in the little boy’s blonde head, but the sense was there that his father’s panic, his irritability, his lack of patience, all added up to paternal incompetence.
Genevieve was the oldest at ten years, and the best at dealing with Mom’s new migraines and dizziness. She could take care of the little ones as well. But she was out all the time, so it fell to the next oldest, George. While he was dutiful, constantly by Mom’s side even when she yelled at him, George had no patience with Peter.
Peter blinked hard, raising a hand to his upper arm. He never knew when the bigger boy would suddenly turn on him, and it made staying in the house unbearable.
So he was out here, watching the Wingull fly away like he wanted to, and heedless of the grey thunder and approaching lightning.

In the little yellow house near the docks, another young boy did hear the storm. With every roar of thunder and every flash of lightning, he leapt out of his skin, quaking, trying to bury himself in the threadbare plush toys and faded blue blankets.
“George!”
The Poliwag jerked his head out from under the blankets in the boys’ room. Another shattering of thunder shook the house, making him whimper and try to retreat back under the covers, but Mom was still calling him.
Filled with fear of lightning, the young Water type slid out into the tiny hallway. Mom was on the stairs near the end.
Evidently she had been trying to make it up when another episode had struck her, the migraines and dizziness making her sway dangerously. With no banister on the stairs, George had to spring into action, the eight year old leaping down to take up his mother’s arm. She leaned her adult weight on him heavily so that his knees buckled, but young George stood resolute, his own fear and feelings shafted in service of his filial duty.
Thunder sounded again, making George nearly cry out, but he bit his tongue and remained silent, trying to help his mother up the stairs.
She didn’t seem to notice, talking to herself in low, weak tones.
“Will, you neanderthal…..hope you’re happy where you are, pestilence.” George blinked, head lowered, as Mom weakly insulted Dad under her breath.
“Leave a sick woman with your children, why don’t you. What a man you are….men….I hate them…” Mom took one wobbling step with her son under her arm, then stopped, slowly crumpling to her knees as she tried to grab her head with her free hand. The pain was clearly immense, and Dad was supposed to bring her in for testing the next day. Time would tell if he would do so. George had remained silent throughout this ordeal, but finally opened his mouth to whisper out, “Mom….”
“Peter.” Suddenly Mom’s expression, through the pain, softened. “He must be so scared, in this storm.”
George’s expression froze, his own fear a solid block of ice in his chest. Mom went on, despite her nausea, despite nearly teetering over as her eldest son tried to bring her up the stairs.

“Peter’s so vulnerable, he needs so much help….who will take care of him in all of this?”
George stared downwards, hearing the other kids in their rooms, each younger than him, alone in this storm. He flinched at another crash of thunder but Mom was fading, her voice weak, and didn’t seem to notice. Weak though she was, she continued to speak about Peter.
“Poor Peter….getting left alone, doesn’t have anyone to take care of him….lightning storms are so bad for he and I…..”
George felt himself withdraw even further, his young expression pulled taut in immobile stone, unable to show weakness, terrified what would happen if he did.
Suddenly Mom buckled, another migraine slamming through her head, her head bowed as she cried out quietly. George felt his breath catch, opened his mouth to speak but was cut off.
“George!”
He stared, scared stiff with his mother’s weight on him and his back bent low. She sounded angry and he could see a sudden fury in her eyes as she looked at him.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m- you needed-”
“Peter’s all alone out there! In this storm! He’s weak to Electricity, George!”
“But he doesn’t have- I’m also-”
“Go! Get! Peter! Now! He can’t handle himself alone!”
George shook, but obeyed, gently pulling out from under his mom’s arms to stumble down the stairs, nearly falling in terror when another flash of lighting flared through the house.

Peter stared out placidly at the sea, up to his waist in salt water. The wild Wingulls whirled and screamed, buffeted by the strong winds and highlighted by the bright flashes of lightning breaking out with more and more frequency. He could see the forked shapes dancing out there, far beyond the shore, and he was mesmerized by the sight. Tall waves rose and crashed down, the roar of the spray mixing with the whistling of the wind and the shrieks of the seabirds.
“What are you doing?!?”
Peter turned slowly, as if in a dream, to see his brother George charging towards him, clearly furious. He felt himself quail in fear, shrinking back as the larger boy approached aggressively.
“What are you doing? Mom thought you got struck by lightning! Why are you just standing there like an idiot?”
George’s rage was baffling, sudden and intense, and it frightened Peter with its unpredictability. His brother reached for his arm but scared, Peter automatically drew back.
The expression on George’s face froze momentarily. For a second, it read of fear, shock. And then it was gone, morphing and twisting into an animal look of pure rage on the eight year old boy’s face.
“I didn’t come out here for you not to come with me! Peter, you idiot! You’re a stupid kid who can’t do anything yourself! You ruin everything!”
George made a rough grab for Peter, and Peter fell sideways, into the surf and spray, coughing as he clumsily splashed through turbid grey waters to get to shore, away from George.
The second he felt sand beneath his feet, he ran.
George was livid. Peter was the biggest problem in his life, and he was going to straighten him out. He gave chase, putting on speed quicker than his brother, closing the gap with alarming speed.
Peter’s breath came in ragged gasps as his bare feet pounded the wood of the boardwalk, then the warm stone of the sidewalks. He could hear George yelling after him as he ducked under beach house stairs, crossed streets packed with surfer bars, and bolted around hand painted planters. A man painting a chair outside the seafood restaurant yelped as Peter tore past, then George.
Their house was up ahead, Peter could see it. He was wheezing now, his legs near stumbling, crossing over each other as he tried to make it to the small yellow building. His feet caught on the edge of the lawn and he fell forward next to the neglected planter, his head nearly clocking on the bare rosebush branches on the way down. Suddenly his world was ablaze with pain, his vision swimming and his head throbbing from the impact on the ground. His brother was pushing him, as he raised his voice, his young face twisted in an adult expression of rage and fear.
“You ruin everything, Peter!”
Suddenly their world was filled with the roar of thunder and the flare of lightning as the storm blew in ferociously. A sudden chorus of cries sounded out nearby, as fire sirens began to ring.
Peter had seen the lightning flash and strike the shack on the next block, its wooden roof now blazing with fire.
George had cried out when the thunder sounded, rolling off Peter to huddle on the ground with his hands over his ears. He was gasping, trying not to cry as Peter lay on his back, terrified but dazed with his eyes staring a million miles away at the fire.
Finally he turned his head to look at his quivering brother. Still scared but feeling pity for the shaking Poliwag, he reached over to gently pat George’s back.
“Peter? Peter! Peter, come in!”
Mom was at the door, her face pale but relief in her eyes as she called for her younger son.

“Oh, Peter, I was so afraid, thinking of you all alone out there, so close to all that lightning! Being left alone is so scary, I know…”
Peter hugged his mom back, feeling comforted by her arms around him, however shaky and weak they were. He loved his mom.
To the side, behind Mom’s back, Peter could see George staring blankly at the kitchen table. His eyes were like two hard stones, his mouth a straight grim line. Suddenly he rose, sending his chair back with a screech. Peter could hear him stomping up the stairs.
Shortly afterwards, sudden smashing sounds rang out from the boys’ room, crashing, banging. Mom shook her head, pulling Peter in for another hug. “I don’t know what’s going on with that boy...but I’m so glad you’re safe, my Peter.”
Peter hugged her back.
He could hear George crying, and he felt so many mixed emotions for such a young boy, it was as if his heart would burst.

===========================================

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
- Sea Fever by John Masefield, verse 2

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Index:

WC: 2,182

Description

Hey Ho, Little Fishes

Lightning flashed in the distance, accompanied by a rumble of threatening thunder.
Peter didn’t notice.
The small boy dragged his feet in the wet sand, enjoying the feel between his toes, sometimes looking back to see the trail he had dug into the shore’s edge where the waves washed up and down. He came here often, practically every day, his little plastic bucket in hand and his blue swim trunks on. Mom always told Genevieve and George to look after him, but he always ended up here anyway after they would tell him to go away.
It was okay. He liked the beach.
Here, he could fill his little bucket up with shells and plastic forks and old balloons and Krabby shells that washed up on the shore. He never went near the tourists sunbathing further up the coast, watching them from afar, smelling the sunscreen and wide eyed at the kites they loved to fly, the little dogs they would let chase the birds.
Today there were no tourists. It was a very empty beach. Some droplets of rain hit Peter in the face, making him blink, but he simply stood there, swaying slightly in the strong winds. The storm was picking up, but he still stayed there on the beach, watching the Wingulls scream at each other. Not many were up and flying in these winds, most staying huddled on the sand, staring out to sea like Peter himself often did. A few skittered forward, away from Peter as he trudged up the shoreline. When he got too close to a few, they took off, broad wings sweeping the stormy skies effortlessly, like they were being lifted by an unseen divine force.
Peter watched them soar, feeling a strange lump in his six year old chest. They were the lucky ones. He lifted his arms, bucket in hand, trying to imitate their flying motions. It only made him sadder he couldn’t follow, so he dropped his arms to the side, shoulders drooping.
He didn’t have a totem yet, though Mom had commented the other day his hair was looking lighter in color, though he had spent less time in the sun, and his back had been feeling uncomfortable and itchy lately.
But it could just be some unfortunate skin condition he was developing too. Given family history with medicine, it was more likely.
Mom had been getting sicker. The other day she had been talking over the phone to the man they were trying to sell the fishing boat to. Deep into conversation, she suddenly dropped the phone, holding her head in pain as George ran to steady her. She could barely get up, she looked so dizzy and painful, ordering George around as much as she could. Peter had just frozen where he was, paralyzed by fear, as the two little ones holed up in the kitchen, trying to make themselves some breakfast. He could hear the oatmeal being poured out onto the floor as James accidentally spilled it and the tinny voice of the man shouting on the other end of the phone, but he couldn’t move, watching George buckle under the weight of his mother leaning on him. Gen wasn’t around, as usual, taking on all the lifeguard lessons and babysitting jobs she could find, filling up her time with work like Dad did.
Peter wasn’t sure if he wanted Dad home. He was a grown up, but he seemed less capable of helping Mom than the kids did. It wasn’t a thought in so many words in the little boy’s blonde head, but the sense was there that his father’s panic, his irritability, his lack of patience, all added up to paternal incompetence.
Genevieve was the oldest at ten years, and the best at dealing with Mom’s new migraines and dizziness. She could take care of the little ones as well. But she was out all the time, so it fell to the next oldest, George. While he was dutiful, constantly by Mom’s side even when she yelled at him, George had no patience with Peter.
Peter blinked hard, raising a hand to his upper arm. He never knew when the bigger boy would suddenly turn on him, and it made staying in the house unbearable.
So he was out here, watching the Wingull fly away like he wanted to, and heedless of the grey thunder and approaching lightning.

In the little yellow house near the docks, another young boy did hear the storm. With every roar of thunder and every flash of lightning, he leapt out of his skin, quaking, trying to bury himself in the threadbare plush toys and faded blue blankets.
“George!”
The Poliwag jerked his head out from under the blankets in the boys’ room. Another shattering of thunder shook the house, making him whimper and try to retreat back under the covers, but Mom was still calling him.
Filled with fear of lightning, the young Water type slid out into the tiny hallway. Mom was on the stairs near the end.
Evidently she had been trying to make it up when another episode had struck her, the migraines and dizziness making her sway dangerously. With no banister on the stairs, George had to spring into action, the eight year old leaping down to take up his mother’s arm. She leaned her adult weight on him heavily so that his knees buckled, but young George stood resolute, his own fear and feelings shafted in service of his filial duty.
Thunder sounded again, making George nearly cry out, but he bit his tongue and remained silent, trying to help his mother up the stairs.
She didn’t seem to notice, talking to herself in low, weak tones.
“Will, you neanderthal…..hope you’re happy where you are, pestilence.” George blinked, head lowered, as Mom weakly insulted Dad under her breath.
“Leave a sick woman with your children, why don’t you. What a man you are….men….I hate them…” Mom took one wobbling step with her son under her arm, then stopped, slowly crumpling to her knees as she tried to grab her head with her free hand. The pain was clearly immense, and Dad was supposed to bring her in for testing the next day. Time would tell if he would do so. George had remained silent throughout this ordeal, but finally opened his mouth to whisper out, “Mom….”
“Peter.” Suddenly Mom’s expression, through the pain, softened. “He must be so scared, in this storm.”
George’s expression froze, his own fear a solid block of ice in his chest. Mom went on, despite her nausea, despite nearly teetering over as her eldest son tried to bring her up the stairs.

“Peter’s so vulnerable, he needs so much help….who will take care of him in all of this?”
George stared downwards, hearing the other kids in their rooms, each younger than him, alone in this storm. He flinched at another crash of thunder but Mom was fading, her voice weak, and didn’t seem to notice. Weak though she was, she continued to speak about Peter.
“Poor Peter….getting left alone, doesn’t have anyone to take care of him….lightning storms are so bad for he and I…..”
George felt himself withdraw even further, his young expression pulled taut in immobile stone, unable to show weakness, terrified what would happen if he did.
Suddenly Mom buckled, another migraine slamming through her head, her head bowed as she cried out quietly. George felt his breath catch, opened his mouth to speak but was cut off.
“George!”
He stared, scared stiff with his mother’s weight on him and his back bent low. She sounded angry and he could see a sudden fury in her eyes as she looked at him.
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m- you needed-”
“Peter’s all alone out there! In this storm! He’s weak to Electricity, George!”
“But he doesn’t have- I’m also-”
“Go! Get! Peter! Now! He can’t handle himself alone!”
George shook, but obeyed, gently pulling out from under his mom’s arms to stumble down the stairs, nearly falling in terror when another flash of lighting flared through the house.

Peter stared out placidly at the sea, up to his waist in salt water. The wild Wingulls whirled and screamed, buffeted by the strong winds and highlighted by the bright flashes of lightning breaking out with more and more frequency. He could see the forked shapes dancing out there, far beyond the shore, and he was mesmerized by the sight. Tall waves rose and crashed down, the roar of the spray mixing with the whistling of the wind and the shrieks of the seabirds.
“What are you doing?!?”
Peter turned slowly, as if in a dream, to see his brother George charging towards him, clearly furious. He felt himself quail in fear, shrinking back as the larger boy approached aggressively.
“What are you doing? Mom thought you got struck by lightning! Why are you just standing there like an idiot?”
George’s rage was baffling, sudden and intense, and it frightened Peter with its unpredictability. His brother reached for his arm but scared, Peter automatically drew back.
The expression on George’s face froze momentarily. For a second, it read of fear, shock. And then it was gone, morphing and twisting into an animal look of pure rage on the eight year old boy’s face.
“I didn’t come out here for you not to come with me! Peter, you idiot! You’re a stupid kid who can’t do anything yourself! You ruin everything!”
George made a rough grab for Peter, and Peter fell sideways, into the surf and spray, coughing as he clumsily splashed through turbid grey waters to get to shore, away from George.
The second he felt sand beneath his feet, he ran.
George was livid. Peter was the biggest problem in his life, and he was going to straighten him out. He gave chase, putting on speed quicker than his brother, closing the gap with alarming speed.
Peter’s breath came in ragged gasps as his bare feet pounded the wood of the boardwalk, then the warm stone of the sidewalks. He could hear George yelling after him as he ducked under beach house stairs, crossed streets packed with surfer bars, and bolted around hand painted planters. A man painting a chair outside the seafood restaurant yelped as Peter tore past, then George.
Their house was up ahead, Peter could see it. He was wheezing now, his legs near stumbling, crossing over each other as he tried to make it to the small yellow building. His feet caught on the edge of the lawn and he fell forward next to the neglected planter, his head nearly clocking on the bare rosebush branches on the way down. Suddenly his world was ablaze with pain, his vision swimming and his head throbbing from the impact on the ground. His brother was pushing him, as he raised his voice, his young face twisted in an adult expression of rage and fear.
“You ruin everything, Peter!”
Suddenly their world was filled with the roar of thunder and the flare of lightning as the storm blew in ferociously. A sudden chorus of cries sounded out nearby, as fire sirens began to ring.
Peter had seen the lightning flash and strike the shack on the next block, its wooden roof now blazing with fire.
George had cried out when the thunder sounded, rolling off Peter to huddle on the ground with his hands over his ears. He was gasping, trying not to cry as Peter lay on his back, terrified but dazed with his eyes staring a million miles away at the fire.
Finally he turned his head to look at his quivering brother. Still scared but feeling pity for the shaking Poliwag, he reached over to gently pat George’s back.
“Peter? Peter! Peter, come in!”
Mom was at the door, her face pale but relief in her eyes as she called for her younger son.

“Oh, Peter, I was so afraid, thinking of you all alone out there, so close to all that lightning! Being left alone is so scary, I know…”
Peter hugged his mom back, feeling comforted by her arms around him, however shaky and weak they were. He loved his mom.
To the side, behind Mom’s back, Peter could see George staring blankly at the kitchen table. His eyes were like two hard stones, his mouth a straight grim line. Suddenly he rose, sending his chair back with a screech. Peter could hear him stomping up the stairs.
Shortly afterwards, sudden smashing sounds rang out from the boys’ room, crashing, banging. Mom shook her head, pulling Peter in for another hug. “I don’t know what’s going on with that boy...but I’m so glad you’re safe, my Peter.”
Peter hugged her back.
He could hear George crying, and he felt so many mixed emotions for such a young boy, it was as if his heart would burst.

===========================================

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
- Sea Fever by John Masefield, verse 2

Next:
Index:

WC: 2,182