Laura Rodley, a Pushcart Prize winner, has been nominated for the prize seven times and has also received five Best of the Net nominations. Her recent works include Turn Left at Normal (published by Big Table Publishing Company), Counter Point (published by Prolific Press), and Ribbons and Moths: Poems for Children (published by Kelsay Books). With a talent for capturing the essence of life, Rodley’s writing resonates with readers of all ages. Whether exploring the natural world or delving into human emotions, her words evoke a sense of wonder and connection. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PClY8G6HQwk

Catch of the Day

By Laura Rodley

Elly wiped one hand across her forehead, unintentionally smearing blood across it, as she chopped herring, and other bait fish for her father’s wooden lobster traps. One day they would be hers, as well as the paint-poor boat she stood on that lobbed in the wake of motor boats cruising blue waters along Matinicus Isle, off the Maine coast.

But she didn’t want it. Neither did she want the stares of tourists that traipsed the dock in fancy shoes, sunblock and wide brim hats, catalog bought or direct from L.L. Bean across the tide. Nor did she want the jeers of her classmates the few days she showed up to school, just enough to pass, always late, after setting traps.

But there was no one else to chop the herring, and junk fish that she placed in bait bags to set into the traps before dropping them along their line. The stinking task brought gulls to the railing to stare at her in hope, joined today by a great blue heron under the dock settled on a piling under the pier, tourists walking over him, unknowing.

Her Dad was below deck recuperating from his third toe amputation from dry gangrene, from advanced diabetes. So he was no help today, either, moaning down below, where he thought she could not hear, rolling restlessly on his cot.

Slosh, slop, smack her knife cut through the herring, squid and rejected salmon, past harvest date, from the salmon hatchery just inside the cove. She’d never asked for this, but her Dad had no son and they both didn’t have her mother, long since passed, so this was what she did.

Even if she finished this year, senior year, she wasn’t going to college. Her grades were no good. There was no time to study, getting up at 3 a.m. to set the traps, and going back out to check them and haul in the lobster.

As she sliced through the silvery skin to the belly of one heavy salmon, her knife hit some resistance. She tried edging the knife through, thinking, I can’t even gut a fish right.

Out popped a red shotgun shell casing, almost three inches in length with a brass bottom. The top was folded in, its plastic slightly corroded, reeking of fish guts. As she set it gingerly down, one side gave way. Instinctively, she jumped back to avoid an explosion, covering her head, but there was none. She peeked out from between her fingers to see something green bulging out of it. Picking it up, the plastic peeled away, like petals in a blossom, revealing what looked like folded hundred dollar bills. Flicking the remaining red plastic away, she unrolled five one hundred dollar bills folded just under the writing “United States of America,” wrapped around a minute identification card, Henry Wallace, along with a snapshot of what could only be a little dark-haired boy. Henry Junior, Elly thought.

“How did you ever swallow this, fish?” she wondered aloud. The sea gulls scuffled forward on the rail, thinking she was calling them.

“Git,” she threw her arms wide. They lifted their wings like handkerchiefs to settle a few feet further down the rail, eyeing her with black eyes, their heads turned sideways. The heron stretched his neck, expectant.

“Alright guys,” Elly relented, “Time to party,” tossed salmon to the heron, then piece by piece, tossed more to the three waiting gulls.

As she lifted up the money, one gull swooped to grab it. “No way,” she yelped, swinging her arm in a circle to spot Trish staring at her, the blonde that sat behind her in Algebra currently dressed in a bikini top, jeans, espadrilles, holding the hand of Andrew, someone Elly had wanted for her own.

“Humph,” Trish tossed her blonde hair.

“Humph,” Elly tossed her short brown hair out of her eyes as she bent to hide, and wash off the bills with the hose, hearing her Dad clump up the hold’s wooden ladder.

“What’s going on?” he asked grumpily, his marine cut hair bristly gray, askew from lying on it, his forearm muscles bulging, his stomach huge.

“Look, Dad,” Elly waved the money.

“Elly, girl, what dy’a rob the bank?”

“No, Dad, it was inside this shotgun casing inside a fish. At first, I thought we were going to blow up but there wasn’t any gunpowder left.”

“Sun’s got yer head, girl. Go on now, I’ll finish up.”’

“I’ll do it. Nothing’s wrong with me, never will be again. There’s enough here to pay for college applications.”

“College applications? I thought you wanted to take over the business.”

“No, Dad, I don’t, never did,” Elly held one hand over her eyes, blocking the sun, the blood on her forehead now dry. “I know you can’t afford to hire anyone to replace me. I’ve always wanted to go to college, just didn’t seem anyway to do it. Getting to school late after setting the traps; then when I’m there, the kids are so mean.”

“I thought they’d stopped that.”

“‘Smelly fishhead Elly.’ No, I just stopped telling you. Your fighting with their Dads just made it worse.”

“Here I am thinking you would marry and carry on the business.”

“Forget it; we’ll get that new motor you’ve wanted.”

“Another time, I’d say give the money back. But, use it girl, apply to colleges; I’ve only kept the boat for you. We’ll sell it.”

“You’d sell it? Yay,” she tossed more fish scraps to the gulls and heron. One gull snagged a piece, then dropped it. It landed on Trish’s French braid as she returned down the dock.

“Oops,” Elly laughed, hugging her Dad, “I’m free! I’m free!”