Flash Fiction 3rd Place: The Sacrificial Fish of Saturday Afternoon by Liz Gwinnell
Saturday afternoon and it’s knit one purl one a bottle green cardigan for school and I’d rather wear pom poms and flouncy things but you can’t wear those to school hold your hands up Jess and she winds the wool around my fingers and it is the colour of lessons and maths in a book and the bell going for spam fritters at lunchtime sit still Jess and the clock on the mantelpiece ticks and the fake coals on the electric fire glow but it doesn’t give out much heat and she’s stubborn, Gran, that’s what dad says she doesn’t trust central heating and the ash grows on the end of the cigarette drooping from her lip and I can smell fags and the boil in the bag fish she heats over the kettle on a knitting needle for her Saturday night tea go down the shop love get me ten number 6 and I almost jump at the chance of freedom, leap up and bite it like the doomed fish leapt up and bit the line that would see it end its days in a plastic bag of plain white sauce – your Gran doesn’t like cheese, gives her indigestion – and I go into the kitchen and it’s there, it’s there, the sacrificial fish of Saturday afternoon and the air smells of the sea and its pointless life and I run out the back door and gulp fresh air and the coins in my hand are warm and he’s there, the dog is there, he’s always there chained up outside the house with the big hedge and the stone animals on the gravel drive and he sees me and his wags his tail and I pat his head and his eyes are brown and sad and I feel sorry for him with only stone animals for company when he should be inside by a warm fire or running free in the park but when I told mum she said he was probably happy and we couldn’t interfere and then I think what if it’s his birthday and no one knows it’s his birthday and boil in the bag fish would be a nice treat for a dog on his birthday and Gran’s got cupboards full of beans she could have for tea instead.
Afterwards it’s a mystery Gran tells anyone who’ll listen – the women at the Bingo, the man in the corner shop, the doctor when she gets her bunions dressed – it’s a mystery, they all agree, how a boil in the bag fish can disappear into thin air on a Saturday afternoon and dad puts another bolt on Gran’s back door and asks me if I know anything about it but I shake my head because the secret is between me and Fritz – that’s what I call my dog friend in my mind – and the next Saturday afternoon it’s life as usual – knit one purl one and boil in the bag fish for Gran’s tea.
