Zachary Hart was a fisherman at Fellow Bay in Chicago. His friends called him Hartless, that is, if he had any friends. He was a great man with a rod but a bad person with everything else. His rod was a whip, slashing through the air. His rod, was a friend to him, a long lived childhood friend. His beard like a patch of fur on a fur less sheep. He didn’t care less about his appearance, neither did he care about everything beside his one goal- to slaughter and hook up a pike. He’s caught bass, suckers, walleyes and all that call home at Fellow Bay beside the pike. The pike slaughtered all that was in his way, like him. He was a beast, and so was the pike. They were enemies, but friends at the same time. That’s how all his relationship worked. Except whenever he was in one with a real, living human, the ending would almost always be tragic. Everyday, Hart went to Fellow Bay, repeatedly slashing his fishing rod like in the foggy, moist air. It was dark, rainy, July afternoon. Today was the day the pike would be slain. He thought of himself as a medieval warrior, or perhaps, a brave and bold royal knight. He thought his rod was a sword and his worn-down yellow jacket was the shiny, iron armour. He thought the pike was a monster- furious and merciless. Yes, there was a very thin line between the pike and the Hartless. He took a deep breath of the polluted and moist air of Fellow Bay. He asked many questions about the hours ahead of him “Will I catch a pike today?” “Will I not?”He walked slowly through the deep, dark-brown mud. One step at a time in caution of not sinking too deep. He was heading to his secret spot. As he walked, he noticed something. The usual, crowded Fellow Bay is empty. Not because of the moist weather or the fact it was raining, but something else. Since, Hart didn’t own a modern cell phone, he couldn’t see the news so arrogant Hart decided to keep walking towards his spot. One step at a time while moving soaked sweet grass out of his way. Glass shards from smashed vodka bottles, wet, beady sand and many food cans are all scattered around the bay. It’s an ordinary thing to be get a piece of glass in your toe or get cut by one of the broken cans. So obviously, Hart was scarred with a variety of cuts. His dark, thick hair on his head covered most of the goriest ones. As kept walking, he got more anxious to start fishing. Today, he thought was the absolute best day to go fishing and he thought surely a pike would bite his lure. Sooner or later, a tall hill stacked with smooth rocks appear in his sight. He watched in anticipation. So close to Hart’s secret spot. One step at a time. As he set his right foot on the first rock, he felt a rumble. Today was a risky climb as the wet mud weakens the tower.

“C’mon,” says Hart as he lightly rests half of his weight on the stone, “C’mon”.

Finally after seemingly hours did he make it to the other side. In front of him stood a rusty, mud and blood stained motorized inflatable boat. His eyes opened as he noticed the shiny, bronze keys in the keyhole.

“A boat.” he spoke




© LeoAtSunset