The Giller

The Giller roused from his fitful slumber and rose from his sleeping bag, as worn and thin as the metal floor beneath it.

His grunts of pain filled the space between the sloshing of spoiled beer and the clanking of bottles of stale liquor as he conjured enough of a foul but numbing amalgamation to satisfy his need.

Wind whistled its disapproval through the broken glass of portholes, and agitated waves slapped the sides of the creaking boat.

The air was thick with the scent of bloody iron from the rotting, flaking brown of the cabin and hull, tangled with the scouring, drying breath of salty evaporite.

A rattling but fruitless cough erupted from The Giller’s lungs as he made his way to the stern and persisted as he hauled in the gillnet.

He set the dripping, empty net to the side, retrieved his slumping fishing rod from its lonely corner, and cast the naked hook into the murky waters.

The Giller repeated the ritual until he felt a tug on the line and, against feeble resistance, reeled in a mockery of a fish.

He de-hooked, carried, and placed the flopping thing on the scarred and stained table behind him.

Ignoring the fervent whispers of secrets that continued even after the head was severed from body, The Giller’s knife soon had a fresh coat of paint over the encrusted blade.

The detached head kept watching, murmuring bitter truths The Giller already knew. He set aside the so-called fillets and fed the water with the guts and twitching tail.

The Giller recast his net and line as the boat bobbed, unanchored, yet never drifting from this place the sea still held for him.